


obsessional

by Itar94



Series: the ghost and the raven [8]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Daily life on Atlantis, Emotional Sex, Episode Remix, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Genii, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, John Sheppard Whump, M/M, Marines in Atlantis, Mission Fic, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, Plot, Rodney McKay Whump, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Secret Relationship, Sentient Atlantis, TW: Vomiting, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Telepathic Bond, Timeline What Timeline, Whump, Wraith, a ton of OCs in the background, offworld missions, the concepts of some canon episodes have been kept but scrambled around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: Wraith. Genii. Mission after mission, expanding the universe slowly. John and Rodney try to figure out their growing relationship amidst the entropy cascade which is the Pegasus Galaxy.(Their third year in Atlantis, Last City of the Ancients, is a bumpy ride.)





	1. two / one

**Author's Note:**

> (2018-11-10) Hi, welcome back! This is the sequel you've been looking for. I've decided to rate this fic E, a first for me, but not just because of violence and darkness. This first chapter takes place right where last chapter of _seeking antebellum_ left off (so now is a good idea to go back and read it if you've forgotten about it) and basically is just a lot of John and Rodney alone in a Jumper. Heh. The plot itself kicks off soon enough, though.  
> If you've read the last fic in this series, _the law of gravity_ , you know that fic took place in a wide span of time and had alternating timelines and timetravel going on. Therefore some of that story takes place at the same time as this fic. Hopefully it's followable (I'll try my best to make it the least confusing as possible).  
> Thank you everyone who has been kind enough to read and comment and/or leave kudos on my other fics!! Please enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the things he’s **dreamed** about;_

# obsessional

 

**i.**

# two / one

 _the things he’s_ **dreamed**   _about;_

* * *

 **New Athos · Pegasus**  
**April 15, 2006 (Terran time) · 200 days after the Uprising**

* * *

The first kiss is a question, soft around the edges, so careful;

The moons of New Athos turns slowly above through a starlit night sky, but from within the Jumper they can’t see it.

* * *

After the vows, they’d gone back to the Jumper and Ford had opened his bag to reveal those prize cookies and half a sponge cake in a paper box, simple and unassuming. Teyla had brought _ruus_ wine and they’d shared it between them, a quiet toast; Ronon had actually written a brief poem in Satedan fashion.

Nothing too overbearing, thankfully, but John had been stunned, bewildered; hadn’t expected that kind of gesture. How lucky aren’t they to have a team like this? to care so unquestionably? It can’t be quantified; and the wine warmed his blood or maybe it was looking at Rodney, he couldn’t decide.

Ford had insisted on taking pictures: at least one manages to capture the two of them holding hands, and at one point as they’re drinking and laughing and eating cake, Rodney’s whispering something into John’s ear and ends up kissing his cheek. And John’s belly squirms a little because they haven’t been this open in front of the team before. Still kind of new. There’d been a series of clicks and Ford had grinned and cheekily asked them to pose.

It could be a secret forever, and Rodney had grabbed the digital camera from the Lieutenant’s hands, wrenched the memory card out of it – _no, no, you can’t use it as proof you won the bet!_ – and Ford hadn’t protested half as much as John had through he would. But the kid doesn’t want to out his CO, doesn’t want to risk it. Rodney stashed the memory card somewhere in his pack.

Then they had turned around and flown back to the Athosian settlement after the knotting of their hands, and it was kind of weird, John had thought, to return to the pilot’s seat as if nothing had happened. To steer – usually, that’s effortless, a thought, but this time John had had to really _concentrate_. It wasn’t just the wine, which he’d just sipped at knowing he’d be the designated driver; drinking and flying don’t mix. The butterflies in his belly hadn’t completely gone away though it’d also been joined by a new, burning feeling, and it took effort to focus on the controls. Rodney, too, was strained, and their Bond thrummed.

But they had to get back: that hill was in the middle of nowhere, and they couldn’t just dump Ronon, Teyla, and Ford there before they seek refuge of their own. Some Athosians were still awake when they got there, and the three grabbed their gear and sleeping bags before heading off – Teyla’s arranged for them to sleep in her old sort-of-grandmother Charin’s tent. John and Rodney get Jumper One all for themselves. Ford had managed to keep a straight face and not make any attempts at a joke when asking what time they should expect to be picked up in the morning; which was good, because John hadn’t managed to answer properly.

For the first time in half an eternity, they’re alone. Just him and Rodney. Together. They have a sky just for themselves.

* * *

The second kiss burns with fire, unbridled, suddenly let loose; they part, breathlessly, and Rodney’s hand is buried in his hair, pulling John in for a third.

John hadn’t planned, not really, to stay in the Jumper. But with the other three gone and the space all for themselves and the sleeping bags laid out on the grated floor – he’s relieved. A tent on the edge of the Athosian camp wouldn’t be this private. The Jumper is air-tight when sealed shut and no sound can escape it, and they’re far out of sight. Here no one can hear them or bother them or stop them. Settling in a geosynchronous orbit and cloaking the ship was Rodney’s idea. The autopilot is limited, but they’re just going in circles.

In the City, they’ve got to watch their backs constantly. Can’t make too much noise. Have to check the lifesigns detector that the hallways are clear.

Up here, they can do whatever they want. They no longer have to hide their breaths and noises of pleasure;

Rodney pauses momentarily in-between the third and the fourth long kiss, and John blinks dazedly up at him. Somehow they’ve ended up tangled on the floor and he hasn’t manage to unlace his boots yet. Rodney had thought about this a lot, apparently, planned things through, because he packed extra blankets and proper pillows and everything to pad the floor with, and he’s kicked off his shoes and made himself comfortable, drawing John down with him.

Makes him feel a bit like a teenager daring to go on an adventurous hot date when the parents strictly said no, and frantically making out with said hot date in the backseat of the car.

“This is better than a date,” Rodney says, catching the stray thought, smirking. “Besides, it’s not even a date. Technically, because we’re married now. The wedding night is obligatory.”

Oh, he says it with such natural ease; John’s still wrapping his head around it, trying to make sure it wasn’t a dream, exchanging vows on New Athos. They’re _married_ now and John is feeling more than simple happiness. Can’t define it. It’s not a one-dimensional, singular sensation.

Rodney reaches over him as if searching for something, revealing a tantalizing stretch of pale skin when he stretches his arm and his standard issue grey jacket lifts. That soft tummy he’s so uncertain about, but John loves it; loves all of him. It’s become easy to love him and one of the reasons is that Rodney isn’t that perfect compliant lover made of fantasies and without responsibilities; he’s a complex person and they’ll never grow tired of each other.

(fuck, he’s being a sap. again.)

 _Got to get him out of those clothes,_ John decides, _they’re in the way,_ reaching for him, the zipper. Tugs at it.

“Hang on,” Rodney murmurs, withdrawing something from the half-open bag he’s been shuffling around in while still staring at John’s face, mouth half-open and hair mussed and pupils dilated. Kind of distracting. John bites his lower lip.

“C’mon, hurry it up, Rodney.”

“We’ve got time,” Rodney counters. Pulls out a couple of condoms and a bottle of lube with a victorious cry and places them neatly within reach on the pillow. John’s heart thunders. God, _he’s missed him._ It’s been too long since they had the chance to **touch** , and the need is sudden and hot, coiling through his body. He brings his face up to Rodney’s for a fifth kiss. The astrophysicist tastes sweetly of coffee and the Athosian wine, which is still buzzing a little in John’s blood, and those strawberry cookies they’d had earlier, and Rodney moans hungrily into his mouth.

That zipper just _doesn’t_ _want_ _to_ _move_. John tugs at it, furiously. The hell’s wrong with this thing? He frowns, and Rodney breaks the kiss and tries to help him with it. There’s a bit of shifting and John’s fucking _hard_ and so is Rodney, pressed against him. Desperate. Can’t hold back the noises revealing how needy he is, what he _craves_ ;

“Ah, damn it –”

“Here, let me.”

“Could cut it open,” John suggests because that’s just one of those dozens of grey jackets that everyone in the city has got, and they could probably got hold of a new one pretty easy. Claim that it was ruined by an animal or something. Emergency situation. “I’ve got a knife.”

“Yeah, no. My wardrobe’s already smaller than it should be thanks to various missions we’ve been on, running from Wraith and angry locals with pitchforks. I mean, that was pitchforks that one time … and the ones throwing rocks, which was not my fault by the way, it’s not my fault they mistook ‘hello, we’re friendly explorers’ for –” Rodney pauses for a breath of air and is derailed.

Getting the jacket off is a team effort. Thankfully, the rest is much easier. Bit by bit, a little by little, they get each other undressed. John half-expects the Jumper to be cold, but the normally quite cool air must be readjusting automatically, the vessel understanding its pilot’s subconscious demands for a comfortably warm environment. He wriggles his toes once they’re finally free.

Rodney’s always been pretty conscious of his body, even as he proudly proclaims not to be, to always be certain and assertively correct in all matters and uncaring about what other people think. But John knows that’s not entirely true; there is a Rodney beneath that shell who is uncertain, who is easily hurt. John thinks he’s beautiful. It’s probably cheesy as hell, but it’s the truth: he’s _beautiful_ and bright like he’s got the sun rising in his eyes. The imperfections make him beautiful. He tugs at Rodney’s clothes, until all layers have fallen away, and grinds against him. Rodney’s hard and needy and his breaths are fast, loud. The astrophysicist’s mouth greedily moves onto John’s neck, right atop of the scar from the Iratus bug which has never quite healed. A gentle scrape of teeth.

 Rodney’s hands are at his hips and John expects him to tear his underwear off in a frenzy; his eyes are wide and so ravenous. Instead Rodney leans in and mouths at him through the dark fabric, and John releases a shaky moaning breath. _God._ Probably blasphemous but, oh, oh, oh.

Sex with Rodney is always new, always shockingly good in its simplicity. Even if they’ve done it before it feels wonderfully new, a journey of exploration each time. Tantalizingly, teasingly, slowly, Rodney removes that final piece of clothing between them, all the while pressing different kinds of kisses along John’s cock,  inner thighs, and atop of his bellybutton.

“Nnng. Rodney, that’s … Oh yeah –”

_Like that?_

He can hear the proud smirk in Rodney’s thoughts, painting everything a glowing tint.

“C’mere,” John whispers. “Let me …”

Rodney crawls up to the level of his face. For a guy who complains about his back and knees a lot, he’s pretty got at ignoring those discomforts in times like these. Also, John’s never going to tell anyone what a genius Rodney is with that mouth, because he doesn’t like sharing. Rodney’s tongue ends up in his mouth and it’s not slow this time, it’s heated and John bucks against him and he takes Rodney’s cock in his hand to stroke it a way he’s learning Rodney likes. Firmly. Breaths hitching. Toes curling.

“Hang on,” Rodney gasps and grabs the lube. Pours some in his palm. “Ow, that’s cold.”

John bites back a chuckle and fails, and covers the hand with his own. “Let me warm it up for you.” He moves their joined hands back down to Rodney’s cock, his fingers and palm slick now and he strokes leisurely, rolls a thumb over the head. Takes charge and lets go of the hand. Gives Rodney a second, his eyelids fluttering and hips moving, seeking closure, a rhythm. John’s hand isn’t entirely steady, his pulse rapid. “How’s that?”

Rodney kisses him again. Softly. “Mmm, much better.” Starts thrusting into his hand. “Yesyesyes – John. _John_ –”

Fuck, it’s intoxicating: Rodney doesn’t use his name like that very often. In public, on base, even often enough with the team he’s ‘Sheppard’ or ‘Colonel’ impersonally – but when they’re alone he’s John. The way Rodney says it;

Straining. Rodney’s right hand, now nicely slick, reaches between them and envelopes John’s cock. It’s hot and broad and just as John remembers. God, the things he’s **dreamed** about with these hands at the center; sometimes, sometimes when he’s in the Jumper or the Control Room or a lab, and he sees Rodney working a console or fixing something with those hands, he –

_yes yes yes oh fuck hell yes_

“You’re trembling,” Rodney whispers.

“I’m not trembling,” John answers, automatically, stealing another kiss which is eagerly returned. He doesn’t think he’s ever shared kisses like this with anyone else. Never felt this right.

 _Hang on, are you quoting_ …? He thinks because he recognizes this conversation. Obviously, the setting was different. For one, the characters in question weren’t having sex. But John has memorized those movies since he first watched them as a kid, and, yeah. _Jeez, you are. Really, McKay? Really?_

He feels Rodney smirk against his cheek, the shell of his ear. Rodney shifts his hand to include the both of them at once, and John moans, and here they don’t have to hide it. Being able to be as loud as he wants is awesome, and he tries the pace of Rodney’s thrusts, grinding against him.

“You like me because I’m, ah, a scoundrel,” the astrophysicist whispers; shit, isn’t that meant to be his line? it’s unfairly hot and unexpected and John’s kind of embarrassed at how his muscles tighten with want and anticipation and, jeez, he’s not twenty anymore, he can’t want to come that quickly, should be able to reign himself. “There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

 _Uh-uh_ , he thinks. God, did Rodney just memorize that for, for fun, or what? on the off chance he’d one day say it? How long’s he been waiting to use it as some cheesy, internal joke kind of a pickup line? honestly?

 _You’re such a nerd._ ( **His** nerd, though.)

The astrophysicist leans in close, their foreheads touching. _You’re the nerd,_ he retorts _. I’m the genius._

Rodney grunts and looks at him, clearly expecting a verbal response. John almost rolls his eyes, hiding a smile, _man, I’m such a fucking sap, we both are_ – if people in the city just knew what a softie Dr Rodney McKay is, they’d probably fear for their lives. Would think Armageddon was headed their way; a sign of the End. Yeah. They all think Rodney’s too stuck up and arrogant and selfish to be a gentle lover. Or a sap. With bad yet horribly adorable flirting skills.

John decides to oblige, murmuring with deep seriousness: “I happen to like nice men.”

“I’m a nice man,” Rodney says, sounding genuinely offended and like he’s got to defend himself, and John can’t stop himself from laughing. They momentarily lose the rhythm, a stutter and Rodney’s hand slips. John groans.

“I’m – Okay, no more _Star Wars_ quotes. It’s …” another kiss; noses bumping; “… ridiculous.”

“Only a bit. When, ah, when’d you learn that, anyway?”

Rodney likes his sci-fi, sure – he also likes to look down on and criticize most sci-fi and deeming it wrong due to Faulty Science, and even if he’s a fan, John hadn’t thought he’d memorized any lines. So, that was wrong. Got to stop making assumptions like that, probably.

It might just be the dimmed lights in the Jumper, the lack of outside sources but the sun reflecting off the top layers of New Athos’ atmosphere, but Rodney’s face flushes from something other than arousal.

Oh, God, yeah, they’re such _huge_ saps. In order to spare them from any more embarrassment, John pulls him down for another kiss. Wasn’t that how that scene sort of ended, anyway?

* * *

They’ve got all night and neither is so tired they go to sleep right away. It should probably feel stranger than it does to curl up on the floor of the Jumper, huddled in comfy Athosian blankets and feathered pillows (Rodney demands to have proper ones or his neck will hurt forever), naked and a little sweaty. It’s silent but for the steady vibration of the engines and the hum of Ancient machinery at work. Safety: those sounds are an echo of Atlantis; they mean safety and the comfort of home, and inside of the Jumper they both feel safe even as they’re flying at several hundred kilometers per hours, soaring over New Athos in the vacuum of space.

It’s kind of like that episode of _007_ , but if Rodney isn’t going to mention that movie then John isn’t either. Besides, the Jumper’s artificial gravity makes everything easier; John doesn’t think zero-G sex would work that well.

It doesn’t take long until the cuddles (Rodney says they’re just _sharing body warmth_ ; whatever) turn into more kisses, and dawn on the Athosian settlement is still hours away. Rodney, sort of impatiently – he’s always kind of impatient, even when everything’s calm and quiet and perfect and they’re all alone – goes down on him again, coaxing him back into full hardness with touches that are almost too good to be true.

Soon enough, John is on his back, a gasping, writhing mess of pleasure. Again. Rodney is playing him like a piano, fingers so skilled, and the bastard’s even smiling again. _So_ _unfair_. Remembered to warm up the lube this time so it’s not a shock against his skin. Then Rodney’s tongue is on his cock and one of his hands strokes the underside of his sack, teasing, and slips wetly across John’s thigh, muscles beneath the skin flexing.

“ – aah. Rodney! Oh fuck –”

“Mmm.” A kiss on his thigh. Then Rodney moves, shifts so that he’s no longer bent over between his legs but sitting up, probably to stretch his back a bit, got to be starting to get uncomfortable. Doesn’t move his hand away. Forward. The other lifts his knee a little to get more space to maneuver, John following the movement without any sense of unease or fear; he trusts Rodney implicitly, as Rodney trusts him. Then the other knee. Thumb moves in circles. “This okay?”

_Yes, definitely okay, definitely **more** than okay –_

Exploring a little more. A little deeper. A well-lubed fingertip presses against the rim and John inadvertently tenses, a reflex. He’s thought about trying it, tentatively touched himself a couple of times, but they’d never really had enough time before. And they’d decided to take it easy, try things out only if they both want it. Rodney meets his gaze uncertainly.

“Yeah,” John breathes, and Rodney pushes just a little, just a little. “… ah.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Uhm, no, just – kind of weird, I guess.”

 _Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,_ a shared thought.

Rodney’s intense worry is kind of sweet. John’s not that used to it, still. He’d sort of expected that Rodney would turn out to be frantically rough in bed; guess that’s how a lot of people perceive him, think that he must be, demanding and harsh-tongued and unthinking hands. Then he’s been proven all wrong. John is glad.

_Don’t stop._

They grab one of the pillows and John lifts his hips when Rodney nudges him to so they can shuffle it under there, which is a lot more comfortable than before. Following his commands is easy and they don’t need to share words. One hand lingers on him, an anchor, hotly, and John thinks the fingerprints are going to be seared like shadows onto his skin forever. He’s generous with the lube. John had anticipated they could get this far this morning when taking his shower after the usual run around the East Pier with Ronon, and had done his best to clean himself up properly, just in case. He’s thought about it, fantasized a little when jerking off in the shower when Rodney was on that long voyage back from Terra to Atlantis.

Their sex, before, has involved some amazing blowjobs and helpless rutting against one another but neither’s brought up more. Rodney probably thinks he doesn’t want it, because he’s Air Force, because he’s military and didn’t realize he could be anything but straight until they met or, or – or _whatever_. But John _wants_. And now that it’s actually _happening_ he’s getting all irrationally nervous again and his guts clench and his breaths quicken;

“Try not to tense up,” Rodney says helpfully. “Take a couple of breaths. And tell me to stop if –”

“ _Rod_ ney.”

“Right, right. Okay.”

The thumb is still moving in circles. Wanting to be soothing. John tries to relax. _Hey, it’s just Rodney_ , he tries to convince himself: it’s Rodney and they’ve already had one amazing orgasm together so if he screws this one up, it’s no big deal. Right?

Not stopping preparing him, Rodney murmurs: “Hey, could try another quote. To loosen up. Uh,” a pause; thinking: can’t come up with something right away, too preoccupied.

“Oh no,” John says, breathlessly, “don’t make me laugh, that’d ruin the – ah!”

Rodney’s plan of preoccupying his mind with silly things obviously worked. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, not in a way that John usually categorizes pain: it’s not a gunshot wound or a knife buried between the ribs. It’s not dangerous. Burns a little bit but nothing dangerous, and it’s been slow work, several minutes at least – he’s track of time – and Rodney leans down to kiss him again. He feels … full, even if he doesn’t think it’s more than a couple of fingers, and Rodney curls them by the knuckle, moving like searching for something and suddenly John can’t stop his hips from rearing in surprise, a shocked gasp escaping, and _what_ _the hell was that?_

“Oh, thank God. I was worried that Ancients didn’t have prostates,” Rodney gasps, and John nearly laughs again. “Oh, shut up,” he mutters, seeing the disbelieving expression on John’s face. “I don’t know how the Ancients procreated. Human- _like_ doesn’t mean fully Homo Sapiens and I’m not a medical doctor so I figured there was fifty-fifty chance that you’d –”

“Rodney.”

“I was honestly concerned.”

Then he moves the fingers and _ohmygod what was that?_ Oh. That was – not pain, absolutely not pain. That felt … really good. Really, really good, even it’s nothing like having a mouth on his cock.

“R…ney – oh, oh _fuck_.”

“ **Yes**.” Rodney’s voice is victorious. _There we go._ Now that he’s found the spot, the moves his fingers with intent, steadily. Gives him time to get used to this sensation. After a little while, he leans in again but not for John’s mouth. Kisses his left nipple which is hard and John can’t decide what physical feeling to focus on, his brain all confused and his nerve-endings on fire. The hand by the knee abandons it, finally, and goes for John’s cock and _holy fucking shit_ and Rodney moves his own hips in perfect synch with his fingers, an echo, his hardness rubbing against John’s thigh.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck –_

Struggling to get his bearings and control of his limbs, John fumbles for the condom while Rodney’s busy multitasking, and he’s trembling now for sure as he rips the package open.

“Rodney,” he almost whines, enclosing a question or maybe a demand embedded in the two syllables neatly.

“Yeah, yeah,” breathily gasped as Rodney resurfaces, stealing his lips for a second before shifting a bit so that John can help him get the condom on. He grabs some more lube and smears it on his cock, then pauses and stares at him. “I – John, you sure? Absolutely a hundred percent sure?”

“ _Rod_ ney. Yeah.”

Rodney obliges.

He’s slow and gentle. It’s not a brutal thrust but a series of tiny movements, and John tries to relax. Jeez, that’s – Rodney feels a whole fucking lot bigger now than he seemed five minutes ago. Burns a little but not too bad, and Rodney keeps looking at his face and asking _this okay? does it hurt? should I stop_? and John wraps his arms around his shoulders, kisses him and whispers _keep going oh please keep going –_

John groans when Rodney bottoms out, _oh yeah, that’s it_ , pressed tightly against him and their combining breaths fast but deep and through their Bond he feels the best of what Rodney feels. The hunger of lust and his pleasure and Rodney is _happy_. He stops moving. Looks at his face, his eyes. Rodney’s flushed, hair at disarray, and a slightly sticky hand grasps for his own like the most natural thing in the world. Fingers curl around his, and Rodney carefully starts thrusting.

(John’s always thought they were having sex, but now he realizes they’ve always been making love.

Fuck, he’s **such** a damn sap.

_No wonder Rodney keeps throwing all those silly quotes at me.)_

“John? Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Don’t stop.”

Rodney strokes him in time with the thrusts, which are still so gentle like he’s afraid of hurting him – afraid of losing him – and John doesn’t mind. It’s so fucking gentle it burns in his soul, and he reaches up, clings to Rodney’s shoulders, keeps him draped over him as if they are trying to become one single powerful entity. Rodney’s free hand sneaks around his back, presses against John’s shoulder blades.

He starts to get used to it, this fullness, this **closeness** , and edges of his vision are whitening and his muscles tense up. Rodney gasps above him, shivering but not from cold. He stops thrusting for a moment but the hand moves faster, urging him over the edge and John sees a pearl of sweat running down the side of Rodney’s neck. He’s all tense and concentrated, and he’s struggling a bit to hold himself up and John reaches for him, urges him come closer as they chase orgasm relentlessly.

“Want to feel you,” Rodney gasps, groans, and moves his hand on John’s cock all those ways he now knows he likes. John can’t decide what to focus on, Rodney around him or inside of him or his intense eyes, wide and zeroed in on him like he’s a _potentia_ glowing beneath Rodney’s hands or some other beautiful mystery of the universe; _let me feel you, John, John, **John** –_

The orgasm is torn out of him but not painfully, and all of him clenches and he moans and shudders, coming all over Rodney’s hand. He feels heat growing inside of him as Rodney lets go of himself, thrusting one, two, three, four more times. He feels almost overloaded, charged to the brink, and the aftershocks waves slowly slowly ebbing, lingering;

Eventually, it recedes. Rodney pretty much collapses on top of him.

After a moment, the astrophysicist lifts his head. “You have an amazing ass. I’ve said it before, but, _wow_.”

John grins. “Thanks. You’ve only been staring at it a lot.” _Probably going to keep doing it a lot more after this, too._ Takes a moment, tries to regain his breath, heartbeats lulling. Rodney is hot and heavy atop of him, and an elbow is wedged against his ribs. “Uhm, it’s getting kind of hard to breathe …”

“Ah, sorry.” Gingerly, Rodney lifts himself up and eases himself out of him, and John gasps a little at the sensation. Rodney frowns as he chucks the condom into a corner by their feet, to be dealt with later. Tomorrow. He rolls onto his side, facing him: “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m alright.” And it’s not a lie, or a completely wrong assessment. Sure, he’s a little bit sore, but not so much he’ll be in pain tomorrow, he’s sure, or whatever else Rodney fears. He feels – elevated, uplifted from within.

He’s happy.

The worried frown turns into relief. “Oh, uhm, good. Good.”

“Oh, c’mere,” John says and pulls him in for another _– twentieth? thirtieth? hundredth?_ – kiss. Bites back a yawn. He’s feeling kind of sleepy, that warming good kind when he’s safe and comfortable and drowsy but not quite ready to fall asleep just yet.

* * *

They try to find that comfy arrangement they’d had before, curling up around each other and Mer and Shy finding a place in it too, though it’s getting more and more obvious that a bunch of blankets and sleeping bags on an Ancient grated floor doesn’t make the world’s most comfortable bed. Rodney spends half an eternity moving around the pillows.

“Ugh, this is going to be hell on my back, and my knees already hurt. Why does the floor have to grated?” Rodney grumbles when he finally settles down again, and without question or hesitation he’s leaning up against John’s shoulder and throwing a leg over his, loosely grasping a hand. That warm, tired bliss settles over them, and John yawns.

“Just for one night,” John says, comfortingly. They’ve slept through far worse places and times; offworld missions gone wrong; there was that planet, ‘882, they had to spend the night in cave with a storm raging outside because they were cut off from the Gate, and John had spent half that night unable to sleep, and the other half on guard. If he remembers correctly, Rodney caught a terrible cold there and Ford and Teyla had bravely endured all of their banter and bickering. By comparison, this is a miniature heaven.

“By the way, do we keep orbiting or find a place to land?” he asks, suddenly remembering that, yeah, they’re in space and no one’s at the controls; is that a good idea?

“I can’t fly,” Rodney says promptly. “I’m not moving.”

John’s not so keen on moving either, despite the harshness of the floor. The autopilot will keep their orbit stable. And they’re cloaked, so they shouldn’t need to worry, and if something does happen the alarms with kick in.

It’s nice. They don’t really small talk because they don’t need to. It’s quiet and calm, and John’s body is drained but in a good way. His eyes have just started to slide shut when Rodney’s even breathing suddenly changes.

“Hang on! I almost forgot!” Then, damn it, the guy decides to move after all and John shivers a little as the top blanket falls off and exposes his side. Air’s starting to get cold; the Jumper recycles and cleans it fast. Which is good, because that means in the morning it won’t smell of sex in here.

Rodney scrambles over to his pack. He’s got the usual in there: datapad, extra powerbars, a small medkit, spare computer. John watches him through half-lidded eyes as he digs around, murmuring: _No, not that … not here … where is it? Don’t tell me I forgot it in Atlantis!_ After a minute or so, there’s a noise of triumph, and Rodney turns around. He’s armed with a small box – simple: black – and he sits down next to John, heavily, turning to him.

“So, I know we didn’t say anything about it, really,” Rodney says, and there’s a hint of awkward nervousness in his tone that shouldn’t have to be there. “But, well. I was on Earth and had time to kill, and I might’ve, uhm, remembered to take some measurements before that whole thing with you being kidnapped and all started and – yeah.” He opens the box.

John is suddenly wide-awake and draws himself up in a sitting position, blanket pooling in his lap. “Rodney …?”

“Yes, it is. And, yes, I know we can’t wear it, it’s not that subtle, someone might notice they match but – yes.”

The rings are simple. Not silver, John thinks, but some other metal that’s been softened and dulled. There’s no oversized glimmering stone or inset gems or anything like that, just two simple bands of steel.

_Shit, we’re such saps._

A wry grin: _Yeah._

Rodney insistently holds the box up and takes one of the pair. “Let me check,” he says, peering at the small thing, and John sees that there’s something engraved on the inside of it. “Yeah, this is yours. I thought, since wearing it on the finger is too obvious, maybe a chain around the neck? If, uhm, you want. Later. But I want to – can I?” Uncharacteristically subdued and nervous.

John swallows and nods, and then he has this bizarre urge to start laughing, this bubble of happiness wanting to burst and overwhelm him. Oh, _oh_ , _God_ , he and Rodney have gotten _married_. What happened on New Athos wasn’t a dream. _They’re_ **married**. “Yeah.”

It’s done so vehemently, so keenly like Rodney’s thinking this is the only shot he’s got, like they’re not naked in a Puddlejumper but standing on front of an altar on Earth with witnesses holding their breaths, and John can’t name the emotion in his chest. The ring fits perfectly so Rodney hadn’t lied about taking measurements. Which a lot of people would find weird, probably, a sign of unhealthy possessiveness or something, but it’s also a clever move, John has got to admit. The thought that Rodney would do that while using the Ancient communication stones never crossed his mind.

He grabs the second ring and puts it on Rodney’s finger.

“Now we’re married both the Earth and the Athosian way,” Rodney says, sounding very pleased. “I mean, apart from the whole lack of a ceremony and oversized wedding cake and expensively catered reception and Carson as my best man.”

“Missed one thing, though.”

“What?” Rodney sounds not a little outraged at the thought of him misplacing or misremembering what could be important details.

“There’s always at least one kiss after –”

* * *

John wakes up tangled in blankets, with a deeply asleep Rodney greedily wrapped around him. Or him around Rodney; difficult to tell. And Shy’s wings are draped over Mer like a shield as she slumbers, and his face is mashed into a pillow and Rodney’s nose is pressed against his neck. The breaths are familiar and comforting and deep, and Rodney is softly snoring and John is for a second very, very confused about where he is, why the bed is so hard, and why there’s a gleam of steel on his finger.

Then he remembers. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a dream.

_Oh, it wasn’t a dream._

And then he realizes _why_ he’d woken up. The radio. No, the Jumper’s comms. Calling for his attention. Blearily he blinks, rubs at his eyes, stretches, yawns, tries to make sense of why the light is so weird. Then he remembers that they’re in Jumper One, in space above New Athos. Must’ve completed another orbit – one every forty minutes or so, at this height and speed – meaning there’s yet another sunrise, gleaming pale in the windscreen.

_“… Jumper One, this is Teyla. Do you read?”_

Ugh. John’s head drops back against the pillow. Okay. Got to answer that. Get back to the real world. Just … five more minutes would be nice. Even if his back sort of hurts because of the damned floor. Rodney’s totally right about it; sleeping on grated floors is not a good idea.

Okay. Okay. With a sigh, not even bothering to sit up, he activates the Jumper’s comms with a thought; the ship willingly obliges. “This is Sheppard.” He’s not sure if she hears his big yawn after he says that, but probably.

 _“Good morning, John,”_ Teyla says and he can hear that she’s smiling _. “I am sorry if I disturbed you, but Elizabeth just dialed and requests our return to the City. I said that you and Rodney were preoccupied with assisting Jinto at the relay station here in the settlement, and promised we would return to the City within the hour.”_

Oh. “Thanks for the heads-up. And, uhm, thanks.” Clever thinking; it’s vital the relay station works properly. It allows the Athosians to send an emergency subspace message to Atlantis if in need of aid and the Gate is unavailable for whatever reason. Jinto’s old enough to start learning things like that and it’s pretty well-known that the kid sort of hero-worships him, explaining why both he and Rodney would be at the relay. Sort of. “Just woke up, but we’ll be back at the settlement in ‘bout an hour or so.”

 _“Take your time,”_ Teyla says knowingly and thank fuck she can’t see his face right now. Or anything of either of them. At all. _“We will wait for you by the Stargate.”_

“Copy that. Sheppard out.”

Silence descends on the Jumper again. Rodney hadn’t stirred throughout this conversation; a testament of how exhausted he’s got to be, and how familiar, how **safe** he is with his team, his mind doubtless filtering out the noise of them talking; Mer sleeping on, undisturbed. John rolls over and pokes his shoulder. Rodney makes a most displeased noise, nose scrunching up.

“Rodney? Time to wake up. Sorry, buddy.”

“… ugh?”

Well, John interprets it as a question.

“It’s morning. Weir called, wants us back in the City.”

Rodney slowly, slowly blinks awake, groggily. Yawns. “… morning? … right, right.” Looks at John expectantly. “Coffee?”

* * *

John had thought ahead and packed something to eat, and coffee. The thermos isn’t hot anymore, of course, but it still tastes like coffee, or at least enough so that Rodney can open his eyes properly. They don’t get going right away. Rodney drinks his cold coffee, eats a sandwich, and John chews on a powerbar. Then they, somewhat painfully, clean themselves up as best they can with still bottled water and a towel, get dressed (John packed spare underwear but he really should’ve taken a clean shirt too), and roll up the blankets and sleeping bags neatly. Rodney stows the lube at the bottom of his pack and puts the used condom in the Jumper’s built-in trash dispenser. In a bout of paranoia, John considers chucking it into space, but that’s kind of excessive. The Jumper’s air recycling system has worked through several times during the night, and there are no longer any smells.

The last thing they do is take off the rings. Rodney had fixed a pair of chains and now they transfer a ring to each and John fastens it around his neck, and tries to feel like this is normal and not like he’s Frodo about  to head to Mount Doom as the ring clinks heavily against his dog tags beneath the shirt.

All the outward signs – gone – hidden. When they get back to the City, no one will know the better. And the thought shouldn’t make John’s chest and heart heavy, almost … _saddened_. As if, in the grand scheme of things, this doesn’t even _matter_ , and no one will ever see them kiss;

he forces that thought aside violently.

Once they’re confident Jumper One looks as it should, not evidence of the night left, John settles in the pilot’s chair and turns off the autopilot, and heads for the Stargate below. It takes only twenty minutes to get there.

This side of New Athos it is brightly morning as the Jumper touches down close to the Gate. Teyla, Ford, and Ronon are already there, waiting, but thankfully not appearing stiff or awkward. When the ramp lowers and the three climb on board, John hears Ford talking with Ronon about fighting techniques, comparing old scores. All in all, it’s not at all as bad as John had feared it would be.

“Had a nice night, kids?”

Teyla smiles. “We shared tea with Halling, Jinto, and Charin. She tells some wonderful stories. Aiden also taught us how to play poker.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Ronon was quite successful at the game.”

Rodney snorts. “Really, Lieutenant, poker?”

“What? It’s the game everyone should know,” Ford defends himself.

Yeah. It’s all back to normal. The team’s usual banter, without tension. Almost as if last night never happened.

John turns the Jumper around and dials Atlantis.


	2. fuel to fire, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the train is going too fast:_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-11-11) Thank you everyone who has read this far. Now the plot is starting to get moving ... Please enjoy.  
> (2018-11-13) Fixed a couple of typos.

**ii.**

# fuel to fire

**part one**

_the train is going too fast:_

* * *

It’s late afternoon and the City is encased in a light hue of fog that’s rolled in from the south, carried by heavy winds. Once the Jumper has been parked in the Bay, Weir gives the team half an hour for a shower and a change of fresh clothes before calling them to the Conference Room. So there’s going to be a briefing of either a mission that’s come up, gone badly, or some kind of important news.

There’s still a lot to be done, a lot that’s being done, since John finally got back on his feet. The Aurora is in need of repairs – again – orbiting a lonely star, sometimes cloaked and sometimes not, the City tracking it from a distance. Major Lorne had spent a couple of weeks after the Battle of M22-535 with a minimal crew doing emergency repairs, just to ensure the ship was off well enough to not be found by the Wraith. Don’t want that to happen. Then the Major had returned to the City for some well-earned respite and Dr Grodin had offered to take the helm.

Rodney and John were still off-duty at that time, on Weir’s orders, struggling to move on from what had happened in Avalon with Ba’al and the kidnappings and murders. There’s still some of that being resolved on Earth. Paperwork. Reports filed. Since the Bad Guys were all aliens, there were no courts or juries of the ordinary sort. Thankfully, John, once his testaments had been cleared up, hasn’t been forced to have too much to do with it. He’s sent a couple of emails to Jenny, just checking up, and to Dave and the old man.

After the Daedalus’ return, bringing with it more people and materials, their main focus has been repairing the Aurora. Getting the Warship ready again. They’d gotten far before the battle with the Wraith happened, but they hadn’t been ready for that fight, the ship so fragile and undermanned. Rodney projects it’ll take months before the Aurora is in any kind of acceptable shape again, and frankly he’s quite pissed about it. He’s already assigned a more or less permanent team of scientists and engineers to work on the ship.

There are other things, of course. The regular offworld missions, the trades, search for allies, the exploration of unknown worlds. AR-1 has had a long break and John’s itching to get back out there, but Beckett only cleared him for active duty two days ago and they booked the visit to New Athos right away. There had been no raised eyebrows, since Teyla put in the request, and Weir approved it without hesitation. Said, when the whole team said they’re going with, it’s good if they start out that way, easing into it. Weir had no idea that they weren’t going to celebrate some Athosian kid’s Naming Day or a traditional Athosian feast, sharing hot cider and _ruus_ wine around a fireplace.

(Maybe one day the laws will change and there’ll be repeals and they can tell her, tell everyone. John hopes so. One day. One day.)

The triangular table in the Conference Room is brightly lit from within, and they leave the folding doors open – they’re not going to discuss secrets today – and the noise of the City at work filters through: a marine in conversation with a scientist, Dr Parrish, pass by. John glimpses the usual activity in the Control Room, Banks and Grodin in charge by the consoles, the Stargate offline, before he enters the room and takes seat. Elizabeth’s expression is mildly strained, stern.

“I’m sorry I recalled you so early,” she says, “but there’s a mission I need your team to go on. Five hours ago, AR-8 went to M11-730 on a recon. The MALP indicated the presence of life and, what’s more, the nearby structures and the levels of air pollution hinted at a human settlement around an industrial level of technological advancement. At their last check-in one and a half hours ago, Lieutenant Brittany reported having made fairly good rapport with the people there. They call their world Tholus.”

“My people have never come in contact with them,” Teyla says after being shown the address in Stargate symbols.

Weir looks to Ronon, who shrugs. “Me neither.”

“Well, they seem interested in allying with us. Lieutenant Brittany says these people are more advanced than the average Pegasus population, and Chancellor Ferna, their spokesperson, is positive to diplomatic relations and possibly trade. Colonel, I want your team to go there immediately.”

Right. One of those missions. Sure; they can handle that. And Weir’s probably relieved that AR-1’s comeback to action won’t (hopefully) involve running from Wraith or being shot at. Plus, the people on M11-730 could make a good ally for trade. If they’ve had or are in the middle of an industrial revolution, that could mean their weapons are more on par with that of the Genii than bows and arrows or crude gunpowder, and even if that’s not the case a new food source is always welcome.

It’s a pity they don’t come across such advanced societies more often, John reflects; such worlds are burned down. Like Sateda. They had electricity and machinery and radio broadcasts on Sateda. Ronon doesn’t talk a lot about Sateda, but he’s told John a few things. About the towns and cities. About listening to the Chieftain’s speeches, how the democracy worked. Stuff to be stored in Atlantis’ database so that the Satedan memory can be preserved.

* * *

They agree, but Weir doesn’t tell them to gear up right away. First she gives them the more detailed run-down of the aural reports – AR-8 is still on the planet – and outlines some demands and suggestions of her own. The offer to trade for food and other supplies if they are to be found, such as raw materials and ores, in exchange for medicines or technological or scientific assistance or manpower. AR-8 mentioned mines, possibly naquadah deposits (Rodney basically drools when that comes up.) They get it written down – well, Rodney writes it down, diligently, while also working on some calculations on the side because he always multitasks – on a datapad.

Elizabeth gives them forty minutes to get ready, and they collectively decide to head for the mess hall for breakfast before they head out.

The cooks are very used by now to the rotating schedules of the AR-teams and the fact that a team can leave at night and return in the morning demanding dinner, the orbits on the different planets not matching at all. So there’s usually two or three different choices on the menu suitable for different mealtimes. Food’s gotten better over time, too, thanks to new ingredients procured from allies and recipes shared by the Athosians, and the milk runs by the Daedalus certainly help too. John’s not feeling for anything heavy, so he grabs some fruits and stuff.

Rodney speculatively eyes the ice-cream. John raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything, and Rodney returns the look (well, as long as Rodney doesn’t complain later at the lack of eating proper breakfast and his poor life decisions) and takes a scoop, and John rolls his eyes and decidedly ignores how Ford’s smirking at them.

The mess hall is half-full, the people who stay in the City eating dinner and there’s a few other teams there, distinctively grouped. It’s not an overly conscious decision; it’s not like they’re forbidden from socializing with others than team, but a team gets so close, it’s just natural to hang around like this even when not strictly necessary.

The meal is swift but pleasant, and John’s body is still buzzing quietly, still riding the waves of the night, and the energy will probably keep him upright for days. Steps lighter. He notices it in Rodney too. The energy and he’s not that grumpy, he’s smiling at the team and at John vividly. (Did Weir notice that Rodney’s mood was so good during the briefing?)

Eventually, they’re gearing up in the Armory. Just the last pieces. They’re not going in heavily armed: Weir asked them to leave P-90s behind this time, conceal their weapons if necessary. John’s disassembled one and stashed it in his pack, and Ford does the same. Ronon has his particle magnum, of course. And Rodney, well, Rodney’s weighed down by his bulging backpack. God, he’s going to be complaining loudly within the hour and regret everything.

But this stay will probably take over a day, maybe more. Depends on the speed on the negotiations, plus they might want to do some sightseeing, discover more of the planet beyond what Recon Eight reported.

John stows a spare ammo clip in his TAC vest – just in case. “Ready to go? Remembered the toothbrush?”

“I’ve prepared for all contingencies,” Rodney declares, and that’s no lie. The only thing stopping Rodney from bringing extras of everything from underwear to laptops is the realization that they’re going on foot, without a Jumper, and he’s going to have to lug it all around. (Though at some point, John has the feeling, Rodney’s going to dump his pack on him or Ronon or Ford or anyone from AR-8, really.)

“Of course, doc,” Ford smirks.

* * *

The first thing John notices when they step through the Gate to M11-730 are the walls of steel. The people of the planet have built a dome over their Stargate, encasing it like a shield. It’s just big enough to let a Jumper come through the Gate and land. No windows, no glass that can easily break: it looks very solid and stable, a mesh of steel; John figures that a Dart coming from the Gate at high speeds would shatter against the walls. The dome would probably be ruined, but the Dart would be destroyed.

Recon Eight wait by entrance of the Gate Dome (John’s already named it that in his head) with a number of representatives from M11-730. There’s a woman he assumes must be Chancellor Ferna, and six guards in regal uniforms. There are swords at their belts and musket-like weapons looped over their shoulders, and all of them are similar in several respects, as if this particular unit of soldiers has a ceremonial function – those uniforms are nothing like Terran BDUs. Polished metal helmets, impeccable stances, and all of their Dæmons are large and fierce – those are different enough in Shape, but not in size. So, not just a decoration.

Rodney’s much more interested in the structure and technology than the people. He’s already holding up a modified lifesigns detector to scan the environment around them, and John tries to subtly nudge him with a thought: _Try not to be rude, yeah?_ and Rodney doesn’t answer verbally, just rolls his eyes.

Given the importance of the mission, and the way the Gate is located with no way to flee to or from it, John has no choice but to bring Shy. Most missions, they’d fly ahead, before meeting people. This time it’s unavoidable, and he hopes these people – the Tholusians – will be okay with a winged Dæmon. The sight of them.

Lieutenant Brittany, leader of AR-8, nods in greeting at the team as they approach. Her team has stayed on this planet for hours, gathering information and getting a good rapport with this Chancellor person. She’s a First Waver, a veteran of Atlantis and the SGC, much like Sergeant Bergqvist; but AR-8 has been switched around, new blood recently mixed in. Lance Corporal Nadeau is a Second Waver, fairly new but quick on the ropes; she joined the team after Corporal Trevor asked for reassignment after contact was made with Earth last year. Actually, the team’s gotten better since then – tighter, a better dynamic, reflected in both official and unofficial reports. Lieutenant Hobbs is the most unknown piece: this is only his third mission with this team, and he won’t end up as a permanent part of it, only standing in for Lieutenant Wade who still hasn’t come over that bad case of flu.

John wears his best diplomatic face as he walks up to meet them. He isn’t too fond of these missions. Hell, he’s never going to be a politician the way Weir is, but a guy’s got to do what a guy’s got to do.

“Hi. I’m Colonel Sheppard, this is my team – Teyla Emmagan, Ronon Dex, Dr McKay and Lieutenant Ford. Dr Weir sends her regards. She’s given us approval to negotiate on behalf of our peoples.”

“Welcome to Tholus,” Chancellor Ferna greets.

“Thank you, Chancellor.”

Her eyes stray from his face to his Dæmon; Shy’s perched on his shoulder, a supportive weight, and they keep still and calm and quiet. John figures that if anything, sudden moves will unsettle these people, and as long as his Dæmon doesn’t actually take flight the Tholusians will – eventually – pay them little mind.

Chancellor Ferna doesn’t ask questions, thankfully. She gestures for them to follow. “This way, please. A reception has been prepared at the Governmental Palace.”

“Of course. Lead the way.”

The guards break formation to open the heavy doors: well-oiled, they don’t creak. On the outside of the Gate Dome, it’s summer, but the air is tainted by the scent of gasoline, of steam, grease; a shadow of industry. Rodney lifts his head to have a good look around, but manages to contain himself not to stray from the group. Ronon brings up the rear with AR-8, and John trusts him to keep an eye on Rodney in case the scientist finds something so fascinating he stops walking.

John glances around. The street is neatly cobbled, and very busy: there are all kinds of people here, and the street is lined with buildings. Shopkeepers, merchants, craftsmen. There is a steady stream of noise. But people make way for the Chancellor and the entourage.

_Anything interesting?_

Rodney catches the thought. _These energy readings – they’ve got technology, actual technology! We have to find out more. Finally, a world that isn’t completely primitive!_

Needless to say, Rodney is a fan of this mission already. John swallows an infectious grin.

“Chancellor,” Teyla says, “I am curious about your world. My people, the Athosians, are allies with Dr Weir, but we have never made contact with you. Your people seem to flourish.”

“We do,” Chancellor Ferna says proudly. “We have recovered since the last Culling well, and trade with many worlds. But mostly we are self-sustaining. We have schools of science and art, monuments, libraries – if your people wishes, we could visit such a site.”

“Thanks, Chancellor,” John says. “We’d like that.”

“With this level of industry, do you not fear you will attract the Wraith?”

“The Wraith always come,” the Chancellor sighs, “sooner or later, but it is our belief we cannot let ourselves be governed by them. I explained to your other … Recon Team? – the last Culling was six generations ago.”

Six generations: the blink of an eye: a lot can happen in that time, a lot of advances can be made. And a lot of things can go wrong. Six generations is everything and nothing in the Pegasus Galaxy. Hell, six generations is everything and nothing on Terra: that’s, what, a hundred and fifty, two hundred years? Wars can begin and end and civilizations be overturned, governments rewritten. A hundred a fifty years ago, on Terra, women couldn’t vote and no one knew what the moon was made of; now they’ve walked on it and are using Stargates to explore the universe.

That sardonic, murky corner of John’s soul can’t keep the thoughts at bay: how many planets haven’t they visited that have been ravaged and burned down? Ghost cities, empty villages; streets like these ruined, (Sateda: Sateda had been eerily similar to this, the MALP’s images relaying towers and cities, a civilization erased) – the thought strikes him, and he lets Shy glance at Ronon and his large Dæmon, walking behind them with Recon Eight at a steady pace.

The Satedan doesn’t look upset or troubled at any – if there _are_ any -connotations between Tholus and Sateda, but John would like to keep an eye on him. Just in case.

The cobble gives way to a polished track inset in the road, almost like a directional marker unlike anything on Terra. A line of iron two, three inches wide, and John looks around: they’re at a crossroads, churning with activity. Salesmen cry out wares and prices trying to appeal customers. There are lampposts, unlit at the moment, and the buildings are generally two stories tall, sturdy-looking.

People are glancing at the strangers: no outright fear, but John feels someone pointing, a child, a question, and Shy ducks their head. God, he wishes they could fly. But they’ve already been seen.

Chancellor Ferna stops the entourage, and a row of vehicles pull up. John blinks. This has got to be the first time they’ve seen cars – or anything like cars – in Pegasus. Sure, they’re more like horseless carriages than modern cars – a mixture of that and of the T-Ford, wrought iron and decorated wood and six thin wheels. The driver sits in the middle in front of an instrument panel, simple gauges, and like the soldiers these men are already wearing highly decorative, nicely polished uniforms. Huh, AR-8 hadn’t mentioned any cars in their aural report. Well, this explains the noise and the scent of the exhausts, a mist around the town.

“You guys have cars?” Ford blurts. “Ma’am,” he adds.

“Oh, yes. The combustion engine was invented many years ago,” the Chancellor says, thankfully not sounding offended at the Lieutenant’s astonishment. “This is the fastest way to the Governmental Palace.”

They split up in groups of three Lanteans and three Tholusians per vehicle, and Chancellor Ferna asks him to sit with her in the first one. John figures he can’t refuse, and this is one of this missions that’s going to be long, mostly boring and uncomfortable, and the small talk awkward. He’s always found it easier to mingle with the … well, normal locals. The merchants and farmers and soldiers or whatever they may be. The leaders and high-ups on the other hand …

Teyla, Rodney (preoccupied, clutching a datapad, taking as many readings as humanly possible; the Athosian kindly guides him into the vehicle, a hand on his elbow) and one of the marines from Recon Eight, Corporal Hobbs, enter the second vehicle. Hobbs is one of the newer guys, British SAS who only joined the City a few weeks ago, and still getting used to all of this. Though he’s received basic SGC training, some things are … very different here compared to the Milky Way, by all accounts.

Brittany, Nadeau and Bergqvist take the next vehicle in line, and Ronon decides to squeeze in there with them. Good thing the cars are the size of minivans. Or vans, period. Before the LT can get other ideas, John beckons him to join him and the Chancellor. He’s going to need some kind of support here, and evidently Teyla’s chosen to abandon them.

The motion of the car is kind of wobbly, or that may be the streets. Not the most comfortable ride, and slow, no more than perhaps thirty miles per hour, due to the nature of the road. They don’t seem to have invented rubber tyres yet.

Chancellor Ferna is happy to answer questions on the way. All veiled in diplomacy and fancy words, of course; but John asks some generic things about the planet and the structure of the government and the people – this is their largest City. Several hundred thousand people live here. That’s why they’ve built a Dome over their Gate – smart. Gives them some time, at least, if the Wraith come.

(But if they come by Hiveship, filling the skies … There’s no way in hell the Tholusians could escape through the Stargate. A total population over six million people, and they don’t have starships. John shivers and doesn’t voice the thought.)

Ford is quiet, mostly. Looks out the window at the landscape, what little can be seen. The city is bustling with life. The driver honks a horn – sounds a bit like a trumpet, angrily – when a bunch of kids get in the way of the slow-moving car, passing a ball between them. A few hundred yards after that the cars nearly stop moving altogether as they hit a roadblock in the form of people pulling or dragging overloaded carts.

Chancellor Ferna explains that today is market day, with farmers from the countryside coming to the city to sell their goods. A sign they have a working economy, John notes. Even if it is capitalist (no sign of anything else). The Governmental Palace lies only a few miles away, but it might take a while to get there. The Chancellor is in no hurry, however.

“Your scientist, Dr McKay – is Doctor a title common to all scientist on your world? I’m curious about your social structure.”

“Uh, I guess, in a way,” John says. “Not always.”

“Your leader is also ranked as Doctor. For us, that is a sign of medical knowledge. Is it one of leadership on your world?”

“Yes, well, for us too, but there are different kinds of doctors where we’re from. Basically it means you’re, uh, learned, educated in a specialized subject. And some doctors can be leaders.”

“I see. Fascinating. And your ranks, Colonel Sheppard? You are obviously the leader of your Recon Team, yet the leader of the other team called herself Lieutenant.”

“Oh, that. Yeah.” There’s a limit at how much they are allowed to talk about these things. Rules set forth by the IOA and SGC, and John agrees with them on this one point – caution is always best. Even if the Tholusians might be the most peaceful people ever sprung into existence, with no ill intentions whatsoever, only honest curiosity. “Our military is … mixed. A Lieutenant is an officer rank, whereas some are enlisted.”

“Colonel Sheppard is our highest ranking military officer,” Ford adds.

They can’t say, of course, that there are brass far above, lightyears away, pointing fingers when they can; that there’s a General of the Air Force whom John probably will never meet, and so many other branches and a complex net of Generals and politicians on Terra, governing from afar. They don’t speak of Terra. Hell, they’re keeping the City itself a secret. Pretending that Atlantis is destroyed and they are survivors from another world. Offering a line of communication between the Tholusians and the Alpha Site; that is all they can risk. It’s simplifying the hell out of it, but it may be necessary.

“I could arrange a personal meeting with our Chief General Jahat of the Defense Ministry,” Chancellor Ferna says. “He is a renowned military strategist.”

“Thank you,” John says – okay, great, more meetings with Important People of the State. Refusing would be rude, right? Teyla and Kanaan would chew his ears off. “I’m sure it’d be, uh, mutually beneficial.”

The car gets moving again, the streets clearing. The driver doesn’t thrum the wheel impatiently, back so straight it has to hurt. Guy probably doesn’t get paid enough.

Soon, they get a view of something in the windscreen: a towering building which, at a distance, hadn’t looked like more than a glimmer of sandstone and marble. Conversation ceases, and Ford cranes his neck, wide-eyed.

The Lieutenant whistles. “That’s one hell of a building.”

“He means to say it’s very impressive, Chancellor,” John says, figuring that the Gate Translation Matrix can shed half of that sentence into the wrong type of light. “That’s your Governmental Palace?”

“Indeed it is. We pride ourselves the strength of our architecture. It is the work of two generations,” the Chancellor says.

John would like to have a closer look at the Palace. It’s obviously built with defensive purposes. A fortress. Those slits in the walls – easy to imagine guns or archers there. The walls look very thick, very solid. A force could shatter against them. The structure is massive and intricate, and John can’t really pin down which Terra culture it mostly reminds him of. Taj Mahal? A pyramid, with those cresting rooftops shining in the sun? A mosque, beautifully ornamented? All of that, and nothing of it. It’s alien and really quite beautiful.

The cars reach a pair of gates of wood and steel, which are pulled open by more guards, their hands gloved. Those who don’t open the gate stand at formation, saluting.

John hasn’t been to London, but he imagines this is a bit what Buckingham Palace is like whenever someone’s arriving or leaving. The getup. Yet, the Chancellor’s attitude is … relaxed? Yeah: the U.S. President wouldn’t be travelling to meet strangers from another place with only six personal guards and have the convoy move through the busiest parts of town without clearing the roads first, having security on standby. Perhaps there are, but John’s got a good eye and he hasn’t seen a single scope reflected from a window or rooftop.

So: overconfident, or just a more relaxed attitude toward foreigners than expected? They haven’t asked the Lanteans to disarm, either. Though this is a diplomatic visit, so while Recon Eight came here for First Contact geared up to the max, John’s team aren’t as armed this time. Still has a sidearm for emergencies, and Ronon must be carrying an untold number of knives. (Convincing him to leave behind his sword had been impossibility.)

As the cars descend up a curved slope, gates closing behind them, Chancellor Ferna lays out the final important details. “Many people are eager to meet you. Chief staff from our government and military will be present, including our Minister of Foreign Affairs, Minister of Economy, and Minister of Education and Science. Unfortunately Chief General Jahat is busy with overseas affairs.”

“It’s more than fine, ma’am,” John says. “You said Minister of Science?”

“Yes, Minister Dorrell is the overseer of all public scientific and educational institutions.”

“Sounds like McKay’s thing,” Ford says (cheeky).

 _Yeah._ Depends on whether this Minister Dorrell can stand Rodney’s initial presumptions and rudeness. John doesn’t say so out loud. Instead, he mentally tries to learn some of the names, and plasters on a pleasant smile: “If the Chief General isn’t here today, are there any other military staff we could talk to? Consider it personal curiosity. We’re eager to learn about each other’s likeness and differences.”

“Of course,” the Chancellor says mildly. “The General’s aide, Commodore Eshten, took the first railway carriage to Ernaus city this morning. He is a very punctual man.”

Railways, huh? Wonder if they’re just for military or other official use, or a fully-functioning public transportation system?

The convoy comes to a halt on a circle of gravel surrounded by tall, decorated walls. Some of the windows aren’t plain but full of color, depicting scenes not unlike a cathedral – people at war; a greying woman in a cape with a scroll in her hand; a man raising a sword. The symbols might mean more to the Anthropology department, and John makes a mental note to ask Ford to take some photos later.

More men in regal uniforms appear, opening the car doors, all fixed movements. The ceremony isn’t enough to give John a headache yet, but surely it will come before the day is over. The guards are the same but for a man exiting the grand building, walking down the stone stairs: similar uniform, but heavier tabards, gleaming, and his helmet is brimmed with white fabric tied to a knot on the right side. The Chancellor goes up to meet him half-way. The guards form two neat lines.

John subtly gestures for his team and Recon Eight to form up behind him. Rodney’s not looking down onto his datapad anymore: he’s glancing this way and that, trying to catch every detail, and his thumbs thrum silently against the edge of the datapad, which he’s still clutching. No shared thought is needed to know that he’s very intrigued and excited and would like to get on with the real important things now, please, not this ceremonial nonsense.

“Commodore, you made it.”

“Chancellor.” So this is Commodore Eshten. Not a mountain of a man: rather unassuming, barring the uniform. A plain face, getting onto in years, slowly. His Dæmon is grey. “I wouldn’t dare be late. I wanted to be the first to greet our visitors.” The Commodore looks at the Lanteans, and whatever he’s thinking he’s hard to read. Like a politician who’s in the game and good at it. “Is it true? You originate from the Ancestral City?”

“It’s true, sir,” John says blankly. “Unfortunately, the City was destroyed by the Wraith last year after they besieged us. We’ve resettled on a new world.”

“My condolences. Are you the commander of this group?”

“Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. This is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Ford, and the rest of my team: Teyla Emmagan, Ronon Dex, Dr McKay, and Recon Eight: Lieutenant Brittany …”

Commodore Eshten nods, and the motion is bored and routine. His eyes fixate on the Raven on John’s shoulder, and John strains not to flinch away from it. No questions, though. No statement about the oddness of the Shape.

“We really should go inside,” Commodore Eshten says, already turning. “They are waiting.”

“… and Corporal Hobbs …” John trails off. _Okay_. He shares a look with Rodney, who shrugs. Introductions will have to wait, then.

* * *

The Hall – it really is a proper Hall, bigger than the Gate Room – is a visage from Venice or Ancient Rome, with staggering pillars on each side and so many lamps. Oil lamps, maybe, the way they flicker, interspersed with large lightbulbs in the ceiling and on the walls. Everything is adorned with frescoes, paintings on huge canvases, thick fabrics gathering dust. The marble floors are glaringly sparkling clean, clicking under their boots.

_Should’ve picked something nicer to wear._

Everyone within are dressed in what must be their finest regalia. Long dresses brushing the ground, overly pompous military-style uniforms. Scabbards. Most people are armed, some way. Whispers, murmured conversations. On one side of the doors there’s an orchestra – or more like marching band – their instruments gold-plated; low-pitched horns, clear trumpets, but also unlike any musical instruments he’s familiar with. As soon as the Chancellor enters the Hall, they begin to play an upbeat tune.

“Nice digs,” Ford comments in a low voice.

“Uh-huh.” His gaze is drawn upward. The ceiling is curved into a sharp point. Must be the pyramid they saw at a distance on their approach. Very bright: more wood carvings and murals in the stone. Very fancy.

The Chancellor greets an important-looking guy and they start a quiet, intense discussion; for a moment ignoring the Lanteans.

“So,” John murmurs, “what do you guys think?”

“They are a proud people,” Teyla says. “The merchants on the streets did not seem to be struggling to sell their wares.”

“Nobles are armed, but not commoners,” Ronon says.

Lieutenant Brittany has kept her team to the side a bit, but she says: “Sir, it was similar when we arrived. They have some kind of audience here, or more like a party. A chance to mingle. It’s kind of lowkey – well, for politicians – not really a royal audience.”

John nods. “Thanks for the heads-up, LT. What do you think about it?”

“Well, sir, they’re pretty advanced. Cars, railways, combustion engines, electricity,” Lieutenant Brittany says.

Sergeant Bergqvist frowns. “Not everywhere. I couldn’t see electric lights out in town, anyway, just in here.”

Rich people get the good stuff. The usual deal. Seems like the more technologically advanced a world is, the more unequal it’s become. John has to remind himself they’re here to gather allies, not spark rebellions. Maybe, maybe they could give some nudges. Investigate things – education, social security, healthcare, that stuff for the common folk – Dr Weir would approve, wouldn’t she? (Maybe.)

“What generates it? River dams, fossil fuels?” Rodney demands. “If we’re here to _mingle,_ which is the type of frivolous activity that mostly just gives me a giant headache, let’s find someone sensible to discuss it with.”

“They’ve got a Minister of Science and Education,” John says mildly teasingly. “In charge of all the scientific institutions and stuff.”

Rodney’s eyes practically glow. “Really? Where? Who is it?”

“How should I know, McKay, we just got here,” John says, gesturing at the sea of people, and pretends not to notice Ford sniggering into a hand and fake coughing.

Chancellor Ferna returns, now with the New Important Guy in tow. “Colonel Sheppard, this is Nadras, Minister of Economy. He oversees all mining operations on our world, which I have been told is of great interest to you.”

No shaking of hands, but the guy, Nadras, does the same thing the Chancellor did earlier, a hand on his chest. John figures he should do the same. From the corner of his eye, he notices that Teyla copies the motion and inclines her head; but the rest of the team has dispersed, and Ronon’s found – or been given – a glass by a passing-by servant with a tray. Corporal Hobbs  and Lieutenant Brittany are at the Satedan’s side, not talking much; observing. The servant walks up to them and wordlessly the Chancellor takes a glass, and John, Teyla and Rodney are pressed to do the same. John doesn’t drink, and not just because it’s an alien substance; he’s not a hundred percent sure that _ruus_ wine from yesterday is fully out of his system.

“Nice to meet you, Minister,” John says. “Yeah, we’re kind of interested in trading with you, especially for foodstuff and metals.”

“What exactly do you mine and where? Dr Rodney McKay, chief scientist.” Trust Rodney to walk right into the matter without ado.

Minister Nadras’ expression is chiseled like rock – maybe a stroke of ironic fate. Guy’s got to be in his late fifties, and he’s also in formal wear though his is more subtle than those worn by the Chancellor and that Commodore. Less bling, more obvious function. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement – with the Chancellor’s approval, of course. We shall need to meet with the Senator who provinces that region of our world.”

More people, god. John grins blandly. “Looking forward to it.”

 “I trust you have it hand, Minister,” the Chancellor says. “Make the arrangements. I have matters to attend to. Guest chambers have been arranged for your people, Colonel Sheppard, according to your requests. I will have you summoned for official trade negotiations later.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Chancellor,” Teyla says.

“Yeah, thank you,” John says.

The Chancellor takes her leave, surrounded by a whole throng of VIPs and guards, disappearing into the sea of movement on the floor. The orchestra has started playing again, although quieter, a mat of noise that easily can become clamoring. John breathes through his nose. This is the part he hates. The word-mangling, the polite false faces – hell, why does Elizabeth think he’s a good enough diplomat for this?

Minister Nadras doesn’t seem too happy they’re here. Doesn’t like offworlders?

“Colonel, I will summon you when it is time to negotiate,” Minister Nadras says. “Good day.”

“You too, Minister.”

Minister Nadras nods briefly and goes, not hurrying but almost.

He feels the shadow of Ronon at his side. “How’d it go?”

“Apparently, we’ll be summoned for negotiations,” John says. “Sometime.”

Rodney grumbles something on his breath. “He didn’t answer any questions.” He starts fishing through his pockets. “I’m going to take some readings –”

“Hang on, McKay. Kind of rude swinging a scanner around, don’t you think? Let’s wait until the party’s over.”

Rodney rolls his eyes but thankfully obeys that command, putting away the Ancient lifesigns detector before he’d fully unveiled it.

“Uh, sir,” Ford says, and indicates his head behind them. John’s already seeing it, letting Shy look this way and that for them.

The glimmer of the great hall is almost dizzying, and he’s almost, almost tempted to attempt Shifting into something else: something small and hideable (old habits wanting to take over). The stares are getting annoying. But the only time they’ve changed Shapes was in Atlantis, during the Siege, and the Ancient creature, the _volucera_ , also had wings so it wouldn’t exactly be subtle. Plus, changing at all, as an adult, is not subtle.

This woman isn’t wearing a fancy or dress or a military-style uniform. Like Minister Nadras, her clothes are more practical. Brown, red, grey. A kind, somewhat soft face, which gives that instant impression of this being a safe, unthreatening person. But John knows looks can be deceiving. Unlike most people in the hall, she isn’t armed. “Colonel Sheppard of the Tau’ri? I am Dorrell, Minister of Education and Science.”

“Finally!” Rodney exclaims, stepping up in front. “A sign of decent civilization. Hi, Dr Rodney McKay, chief science officer of the Expedition.”

 _McKay,_ a mental groan.

_What?_

“Sorry, Dr McKay tends to be, uh, abrasive when he’s excited.”

“That’s all right,” Minister Dorrell says. “I’m curious about your world. What type of science is your specialty, Doctor?”

“Oh, bit of this, bit of that, astrophysics, Ancient technology …”

It doesn’t take long for the two to get their geek on, launching into a discussion about scientific educations: on Tholus, they have at least one university, which the Minister speaks warmly of. Studied whateveritwas there – John’s only listening with half an ear, no longer a real part of the conversation. So, Minister Dorrell isn’t just a politician, but actually interested in the subject as well. John shouldn’t feel any tinge of jealousy at the easy with which Rodney’s getting on with the Minister, but.

A fanfare stills the room. There’s a podium at the far end, and Chancellor Ferna stands there, shouldered by her personal guard and Commodore Eshten. When there’s no immediate stop to Rodney’s avid discussion with Minister Dorrell, John kicks Rodney in the shin.

“We have important guests in our presence today – the Tau’ri, who once inhabited Atlantis.” _That_ certainly gets people’s attention. The silence is disturbed by frantic disbelief. The Chancellor holds up a hand, and the whispers fade. “Sadly, the Ancestral City was devastated by the Wraith, and the survivors have resettled elsewhere. The Tau’ri shall be our guests and perhaps a future ally, and I ask respect today and the next days. Previous grievances must be laid aside to not disturb our guests. Tholus will not be known as a bad host.”

Huh? ‘Previous grievances’? That’s a sign of bickering politicians if there ever was one.

There’s another fanfare and everybody claps their hands. John figures it’s best they all take part in the applauds.

After that succinct speech, a servant approaches them. “Guest quarters have been prepared.”

“Uh, thanks. Lead the way.”

* * *

The guest chambers are located in the north wing of the Palace, several suites – nicely decorated too, of course. Brass, inlaid gold, glimmering chandeliers, and John’s pretty sure the beds are lined with real feathers and the sheets silk.

He’d politely asked the Chancellor to arrange quarters for them in small groups – he’s not comfortable about splitting up the teams, leaving anyone alone. Just in case. Not that he said so. The Chancellor hadn’t asked about the others in his team and Recon Eight but, given his rank, specifically asked which one of his team would he be rooming with and surely he would like the comforts of his own suite? John had shared a helpless look with his team and Teyla had volunteered – Rodney had been too busy talking with that Minister Dorrell to notice any questions. John is … not put off. No. That would be ridiculous. He doesn’t doubt Rodney’s intentions or devotion. He just didn’t like the way Minister Dorrell smiled at him. Yeah.

The mingle had gone on for half an eternity before servants had shown them to their quarters. The marines were relived, understandably, but Ronon had more or less led the distracted McKay from the hall by the arm.

The four-poster beds are separate. John shrugs off his pack, puts it on the bedside table. Rolls his shoulders. Room’s big enough for Shy to stretch their wings a bit.

Teyla’s standing by the tall windows, looking out.

“What do you think?”

“It is a peaceful world,” Teyla says at last. “At least that is the air I feel.”

“Yeah. Think they’re hiding something?”

An elegant eyebrow is arched. “Yes, but so do we.”

True. John’s not too comfortable with lying to these people about Atlantis, but it’s something his team has done dozens of times, over and over. For security. A fragile balance. He knows too well how lies tend to come back in the end, and things crash down, a plane into a mountainside.

He peers out the window, leans against the wide windowsill of travertine. They’d arrived in the afternoon, local time, and the sun’s started setting, sky glowing and the townscape blinking. There’s a thin haze of smog making it difficult to see the outskirts: they have a good high vantage point up here, on the second floor of the Palace on a hill.

His body had just started getting used to Atlantis’ daytime when they left, and he’ll probably sleep poorly, rhythm out of whack. All those sunset and sunrises as they soared over New Athos.

God, that was _yesterday_.

It’s very quiet here, walls thick. He’s checked: there doesn’t seem to be any listening devices. For a people that’s invented the lightbulb, radios and the like are a step not far behind.

John holds back the sigh that suddenly wants to escape his chest. “Can we go through it again? The whole negotiation thing. Rodney took notes, but they’re on his computer.”

Teyla nods. “The most important thing we should investigate are the mines. If they truly mine naquadah here, that is what Dr Weir will be most interested in for trading. If we could arrange a visit to a site …”

* * *

There’s basic running water here, but they’re careful not to drink it before testing it – who knows that piping system these people have. The Ancients Romans used lead in their aqueducts, after all.

They brush their teeth and check in with the others by radio. Lieutenant Brittany and Lance Corporal Nadeau says everything is okay, and the LT says, a bit amused, that the servants have been very attentive, offering to bring an extra blanket or whatever’s necessary and knocking every twenty minutes to check on them, and LC Nadeau had finally had enough and locked the door. Ronon’s rooming with McKay, and Ford with Sergeant Bergqvist and Corporal Hobbs. They aren’t checked up on nearly as much as the women. (When hearing Nadeau’s annoyance, Ronon had suggested he could talk sternly with the Tholusians. Which John told him no, they don’t want to cause an incident.)

It’s a little bit weird. John’s used to going on missions with his team, and they tend to bunk together – may it be in a shed or a kindly offered house or a Jumper – but this fancy place is out of the ordinary. Crystal wine glasses and polished floors. Give him an Ancient ship or farmer’s stead over this any day: that’s _normal_ – John can’t release the tension in his shoulders.

After a final radio check-up (Rodney excitedly talks about readings indicating naquadah inside of the Palace’s structure, forgetting how to breathe, until Ronon simply takes the radio from him, much to his indignation) John kicks off his boots. He doesn’t dress down completely, nor does Teyla. In case they need to be ready in hurry. He lies down, but finds himself thumbing his earpiece – not turning it on, but almost.

But he can’t talk to Rodney right now. There is no private frequency, and with the team and Recon Eight here – it’ll have to wait.

Teyla fall asleep on the other bed quickly enough.

John rolls over from side to side eight or nine times restlessly, forcing his eyes shut. Doesn’t really sleep, dreams flashing before his eyelids, disquieting premonitions. 

* * *

“That is most agreeable,” Chancellor Ferna says, next morning as they’re summoned – early enough – to a long wooden table: Tholusians on one side, Lanteans on the other. It’s a whole ceremony to it and John is so glad Rodney packed a thermos of coffee his team could share over breakfast. Well, him, Rodney and the marines – Teyla still refuses to touch the stuff. Corporal Hobbs hides a yawn behind his hand. Recon Eight and Ronon remain at ease in the background, echoing the Tholusian guards who stand firmly behind the Chancellor and the gathered officials.

“Perhaps the processing plant in the northern province,” Amdeus, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, suggests when John brings up the question of wanting to see more of Tholus and its wares in person. He’s a gangly man, a wry sunken face, a scratching voice. “The senator will surely agree.”

“Sounds good,” John says. “We’d like to see a bit more before we make a written trade agreement.”

“This ore, do you have any samples I can study?” Rodney asks. They’re still not a hundred percent if this is naquadah, or a metal with similar properties. If it _is_ naquadah and the quality is good enough not to need much further refinement, this is a really good break; they need it for the Aurora, desperately, and Atlantis (less desperately).

“I’ll arrange it,” Minister Dorrell says.

“The fastest way would be by railway,” the Chancellor says. “Minister Nadras, do you agree to the terms laid out?”

“I may concur.” The Minister does not sound happy. “If the Tau’ri can prove the seriousness of their promises.”

“I assure you, we would not lie,” Teyla says. John is glad she did, because his tongue is all bitter.

“Antibiotics has saved millions of lives through our history,” he says. “It’s effective against a whole range of illnesses.”

From the talks, it slowly became evident that, though advanced in some ways, Tholus lacks in others: they have machinery, weapons, but lack some medical knowledge, partly due to the losses of Cullings. The last Culling, over a century ago, cost untold lives and many towns burned, including large parts of their capital city. They had a hospital that was completely ruined and its archive of information was lost with it.

Teyla exchanges a look with him and he nods. “We can exchange a small amount for demonstration of its properties,” she says.

“Lieutenant,” John turns to Ford, who snaps to attention – the kid is probably very, very bored. “There’s some in the medkit, isn’t it?”

Ford bobs his head up and down. “Yes, sir.”

“We could visit the city’s hospital,” Minister Dorrell suggests, “before we take the rail to the refinery.”

“Then it’s settled,” Chancellor Ferna says.

* * *

Hospitals. No matter when or where, part of John will always detest them. Being here. Oh, they’re one of the most important things in society, no point denying it: but the noise of the injured and the dying, the scent of antiseptics, the while walls – there’s something about those things that’ll always haunt him. He’s spent so much time in Atlantis’ infirmary to recognize so many sights and sounds on instinct and wants to reel away from them.

Minister Dorrell leads the tour. Talks about the history of the hospital, about rebuilding it. Rodney avidly hangs onto her every word. Maybe that’s John’s hindbrain taking over, twisting his perspective. Halfway through the tour he realizes he’s clenching his jaws so tight they hurt.

Eventually, the Minister talks with the medical staff. Asks for a patient who might volunteer to try the Tau’ri medicine. Understandably, the doctor – a hassled-looking man in his forties, hair receding – is suspicious but it’s hard to deny an official with an entourage of guards and strangers in foreign gear, with unheard of Dæmons.

“We could test in a lab on cell cultures –” Rodney starts saying; sensible, and really much more ethical. John doesn’t want to see some random person chosen for trial and for things to go wrong; there should always be a _choice_.

But Minister Dorrell presses on. “This way is more efficient.”

A patient is eventually presented. Pneumonia, the doctor explains, a terrible cough and death not far behind. John nods, and Ford outlines the properties of penicillin and the basics of its workings. They’ve brought one small bottle, liquid form, for demonstration. This probably isn’t what Weir had in mind, though.

“As a sign of goodwill, we can let you have this bottle for this patient,” John offers.

“Three times a day, one sip of this size, for ten days,” Ford says and shows the doctor, who is impatient and slightly bewildered. “Then the cough and fever should be gone.”

“And if it is not?” the doctor asks.

“Well, uh, a few diseases are resistant, but I highly doubt yours will be,” John says.

“Immunity is built up if the use is overmuch,” Rodney says, both helpful and dismissive at the same time. “But that shouldn’t happen for a few decades.”

“Thank you, Colonel Sheppard, Lieutenant Ford,” Minister Dorrell says. “We must press on with the tour. We have a train to catch.”

* * *

The railway rattles. Steam and oil and turning wheels of iron. A high-pitched bell sounds at a distance and they pick up speed, leaving the cityscape behind.

Ford’s got his digital camera out, snapping pictures and filming small snippets. The train’s windows are large enough to get a good view of the rich countryside: rolling hills of green grass where cattle (mainly sheep-like, woolly, but very large) roam. The further they go the clearer the air becomes. Sometimes the landscape is interspersed by large rock formations, tumbling cliffs. At odd intervals there are small villages, farmsteads, but the train rushes past them in a hurry, never stopping.

Rodney’s focus is on the journey and not that Minister Dorrell; she and Minister Nadras have retired to another carriage with a whole bunch of guards. Rodney points out features in the scenery swishing by – _That valley looks like it’s been carved out from a recent ice age, depositing the stones …_ – and John listens with half an ear, nodding appropriately and asking occasional questions.

According to Minister Nadras, they’re headed to the northern provinces where most of their mining and refining industry takes place. Mountains slowly loom closer.

They’re mostly on their own in this carriage; servants pop in every now and then, offering drinks and food. Very fancy. The leather seats are softened by velvet pillows, the tables a deep dark wood, and there’s a crystal chandelier dangling above their heads. So, so many drapes in deep purple, red, gold. Very … garish.

Despite all the luxuries – Minister Nadras had asked if they wanted entertainment and John had tried to picture a brass band squeezing in here, nearly laughed, and politely declined – it’s not the most comfortable journey. Rattling and pretty loud. Nothing like the smoothness of an Ancient ship.

Recon Eight are gathered around their own table. “They took us on a short ride when we first arrived,” Lieutenant Brittany says. “Just inside of the city, though, one station to the next.”

“Think they wanted to show off their fancy railway,” Sergeant Bergqvist says.

“It’s actually a good piece of engineering,” Rodney says. “From the looks of it they keep it in a good condition.”

“Seal of approval, huh?” John nods. “Yeah, good infrastructure. Wonder how far the system reaches?”

“We asked that, sir,” Corporal Hobbs says. “According to the Chancellor, it’s spread across this whole continent.”

“Yeah, Tholus isn’t actually the name of the planet, per se, but the nation on this continent,” Lieutenant Brittany says.

“Hang on,” Ford cuts in, lowering his camera. “The other continent then?”

“Apparently it’s not inhabited.”

Huh, that’s a bit weird. A population this size, a society clearly booming, shouldn’t have a reason to limit themselves like that. Another thing John’s going to have to find a way to ask the Chancellor without being impolite. Who knows, maybe there’s a history to the second continent, superstitions, old wars, geological instabilities, whatever, hindering them from settling there.

The bell rings, and the train begins to slow down. It’s not a sudden lurch but a fairly steady decline, in the middle of a turn. They’re pulling up at what must be a station house. Slowly, they come to a complete halt.

“We’re here,” Minister Nadras announces, stepping into the carriage. “The factory is located on the left side of the track. We can disembark.”

They step outside: sun’s coming out from between grey clouds and the air is heavy. More machinery at work, spewing carbon dioxide. There are many buildings up ahead, brickwork dusty, and people moving, carriages drawn by four-legged creatures or by hand, each overloaded with rock in small pieces. The Tholusian guards form up around and behind the entourage, and John is very, very aware of it.

Of course, state visits are important things. The Tholusians could just be cautious. But it’s hard to miss how some of the factory workers stare in disdain and curiosity before hurrying away. Their faces are ashen and hands dirty and greasy.

“So, this factory. You refine ore here?” John asks casually as they approach what must be the main building. Several chimneys tower above it.

“Yes, all of the minerals in the province are sent here for processing,” Minister Dorrell nods. “It is a fairly complex process.”

“I’m quite familiar with it,” Rodney says.

“Then little explanation is needed. The solution is quite universal, I’m sure. This way; that is where we test the strength and purity of the metals.”

* * *

Rodney whines a little that he couldn’t bring a mass spectrometer, but the Ancient scanner does just fine. He hovers over some of the samples eagerly. A factory worker rolls in a couple of barrels of the stuff for inspection. To John’s eyes, it doesn’t look like much. But he’s not a metallurgist.

“Naquadah! It’s not a hundred percent pure but, wow. This is the best we’ve come across in this g… I mean, around here.” He catches himself just in time. “Tell me, how much do you produce?”

“An average of fifteen thousand barrels of this kind are processed here each year,” Minister Nadras says.

“Fifteen thousand, and this would be about –” Rodney mentally measures the barrel’s dimensions and John can _see_ the cogwheels turn. Naquadah can be useful in many ways. To build generators, for one; highly conductive, dense, can be volatile. To repair the Aurora, for another; the metal is very strong yet not brittle.

It can also be used to make weapons. Powerful explosive devices. Question is if the Tholusians have discovered that yet.

“A lot?” Ford suggests.

“A lot. And a lot is … a lot,” Rodney says.

A couple of hundred thousand metric tons a year, John figures, a quick mental calculation with the vague data he has; not bad at all for a world in this stage of development.

“We use it as a vital component in construction,” Minister Nadras says and doesn’t elaborate further. “Therefore you understand we cannot part with it easily.”

“We understand, Minister,” John says. “We could always take our business elsewhere in the galaxy.”

A slight crack in the Minister’s stern countenance: a hint of amusement. “Ah, you are more shrewd in the art of trade than I first assumed. I admit I am intrigued about this medicine of yours, the penicillin.”

Balancing the worth between two such different things isn’t easy, but John’s been in Pegasus long enough to learn a thing or two. Plus, Teyla’s there, and he’d like to hear her opinion too.

“How much would you be willing to sell?”

“That depends on your interest.”

John glances at Rodney. “McKay, what do you think?”

“Given its impurities, we’d need at least two thousand barrels to start with.”

 _Two thousand?_ Okay. That’s a lot to lug through the Gate and process further, but, well. They need it. “One penicillin bottle per barrel,” John offers. If Teyla’s taught him anything it’s to not set the bar too high at once, or the deal won’t be fair in the end.

“Naquadah is much more valuable. Ten bottles per barrel.”

“Four.”

“Six.”

“That’s acceptable. Is that a deal?”

The Minister offers a hand to shake; so that’s how they seal deals here. John takes it. The grip is firm. “Deal. Let us head back to the city and put it to writing.”

As they file out of the factory, Rodney reaches his side and whispers: “That’s it? We came all this way out here for that? We could’ve done that back in the Palace. That train ride was hell on my back.” Oh, his back again. A whole bunch of (at the moment inappropriate) ways to make Rodney feel better about his back (and … other things) pop up in John’s mind, and he forces them to dissipate. Not in front of Recon Eight and all these folks.

“Don’t complain, Rodney. Just means we’ll get back home faster.”

* * *

A sharp whistle and the bell twice, and they’re moving again. The repetitive motions of the wheels turning, faster, faster.

Rodney plops down on the leather seat and sighs, stretching out his legs. Digs out his datapad. “That went well.”

“Uh-huh. You writing that down?”

“Calculating how to make this trade logistically possible. Also, you realize that twelve thousand penicillin bottles is …”

“A lot?”

So, sue him. They can import that from Terra via the Daedalus. Plus, they need to give these people some training in administration and dosage and stuff. Yeah, maybe the IOA will hate them for this little trading deal, but John can deal with that.

Further back in the carriage, Recon Eight converse in low tones. He catches snippets – _‘Did you see those chimneys? Reminded me of pictures from that high school textbook. Like they had across the pond during the industrial revolution.’; ‘No such old industries in America, what? In my country …’; ‘Honestly, Bergqvist, it’s always your country this and your country that.’; ‘We’re very civilized.’_ – and ignores most of it. The marines seem to be at ease; a relatively simple, relaxing mission. No Wraith. No Genii shooting at them. Recon Eight mostly have got to be bored, having spent so much time on Tholus already with little action to be seen.

All in all, an okay day.

“Okay, once we’re back in town I’ll ask the Chancellor to use the Gate so we can update Weir. Anything we should add?”

“There may be future business opportunities,” Teyla comments. “They seem to be an upfront people. Did you notice the vast farmlands?”

“Yeah, there’s a thought. We’ve got other medicine that could –”

Suddenly, Rodney sits up straight and he nearly hits John’s face with his arm, holding up the Ancient lifesigns detector.

“There’s something up ahead. Right on the track. There’s a bunch of lifesigns.”

“On the track? How far?”

“Three hundred meters.”

 _Shit._ The train is going too fast to stop before that, even if the conductor managed to see the obstacle right at this moment and hit the brakes.

After a tense second, there’s an abrupt lurch – nowhere near as smooth as before – deceleration sharp, but not enough. Regardless if those lifesigns are humans or wildlife or cattle on the loose, they’re going to hit.

“Brace!” Rodney shouts. The marines snap into action, already too late to stop the chain of events.

And then there’s a low, loud boom and everything turns this way and that; a great heave;

a great, long, never-ending screech of metal on metal;

someone’s shouting, indistinct, and the carriage begins to fall sideways, torn from its grip on the rail. John feels himself being lifted up, acceleration and force and gravity battling each other, and then a flat surface rushes to meet him and everything goes dark.


	3. fuel to fire, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _should’ve seen it fucking coming. the disaster. inevitably._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-11-30) Chapter updated/revised.

**iii.**

# fuel to fire

**part two**

_should’ve seen it fucking coming. the disaster. inevitably._

* * *

There’s no alarm.

Shouldn’t there be? Where the hell is the alarm?

For a perpetual moment, dizzy and weak, John is certain they’ve crashed. A Jumper; a helicopter; his brain can’t decide. A low crackle that could be fire or a broken radio. A busted wing. Dead throttle. No burn. But it’s all wrong. Can’t recall holding a yoke or the mental grip of an Ancient craft. No alarms,  no dashboard, nothing electronic. But there should be.

A low hiss. Banging noise. Shouting voices. _Thud-thud-thud._ He grasps for anything to hold, and realizes he’s curled at an awkward angle in a corner where wall meets floor. No. Hang on. Ceiling?

It’s upside down, and the ground glimmers: broken glass and the chandelier is shattered, and there’s that red gaudy fabric everywhere, splintered into little pieces. Dripping into his eyes. He blinks rapidly to clear his blurry vision. His head is pounding.

Voices flicker in and out. Ringing. High-pitched. John blinks again but the ringing doesn’t stop.

“… guys? Nadeau, Berg … Co…ral …?”

“Okay,” a breath, hazy, “what …?”

A cough. Might be himself. Lungs contracting painfully.

“… over – by t…don’t…”

The air smells of steam and distant fires, John’s mind is leaping in and out of reality _(Iraq. IED. the convoy under attack)_ before settling on the carriage – train? They’re in a train, but it’s stopped. Head hurts. His left ear is ringing, high-pitched and temporarily overwhelming. Something’s crammed against his belly, the TAC vest absorbing most of the shock. He glances down – ow, his neck – and sees the top of a familiar head, a grey sleeve, a rumpled collar. Meredith’s been thrown from Rodney’s lap and fallen onto the floor – ceiling – awkwardly, dangerously among the shards of glass.

For a trembling moment, he has no awareness whatsoever where Shy is. Takes a second to hesitatingly stretch out a wing, and John realizes they’ve been cast around like dice in a careless game and landed in the space above a bolted-down wooden table. Nothing feels broken. Yet.

“…M’kay? McKay?” He shakes the man by the shoulder. A groan. His hands twinge as he checks Rodney’s pulse (to make sure) – it’s racing, the shock and the aftermath, but it’s stable.

Rodney stirs reluctantly.

“Ugh.” After a few heartbeats, Rodney makes a noise like he wants to throw up.

“Hold on, buddy.” John pats a path down Rodney’s head and back and can’t find any open injury or alarming bumps. _Okay. Okay. We’re alive, we’re …_ “Teyla? Ford? Ronon?”

“We’re okay,” Ford says from somewhere behind him. John tries to untangle himself and roll Rodney onto his back. The carriage is dark, all lights out, somewhat squished at the end, and it takes a moment to understand that the crunching beneath his boots comes from all the glass.

“Bergqvist?” he hears Brittany shout. “Sergeant!”

The sound of movement, rustling cloth; the LT bends over her teammate, searches for a pulse; a wail of **denial** ;

Horror begins to form in John’s chest, becoming solid. The marine doesn’t move. His neck is frozen at an odd angle and eyes open.          (it happened quickly)          _god, god,_ Shy whispers, crawling into John’s awaiting grasp – _what the hell happened? what would –_ the noise, the millisecond before the train derailed – an explosion – IED _._ A flash of memory, too much like unpleasant pasts. This wasn’t – this wasn’t some naturally occurring accident, mechanical failure, human error. This was deliberate.

Smoke, slowly seeping into the broken carriage. John is forced into action. His people’s safety is priority. Can’t let the others be taken by this. They’ve got to get out. He hauls Rodney to his feet and seeks out the rest of the team. Ronon’s arm is bent in the wrong angle and Teyla’s nose is bleeding. Lieutenant Brittany is bent over the Sergeant’s prone form at the rear of the carriage and Lance Corporal Nadeau stumbles to her side clutching her team’s emergency medkit, but it’s too late.

The others gather themselves to their feet, confusedly. It’s only been a few seconds, half a minute since John regained consciousness. Smoke’s thickening.

“Evacuate. Get out!” John orders hoarsely. His head is pounding. How long was he out? Feels like someone cracked a hammed over his head, and there’s a worrisome wetness gathering beneath his left ear, dripping onto the collar.

Distant shouting. Outside? Echoes strangely, and there are puffs of noise that could be gunfire but isn’t semiautomatic.

“Ronon?”

Stoically: “I’m fine.”

“Ford, take care of him. Teyla, help McKay. Get out of here.” One of the windows is completely gone and he can see grass and sunlight beyond it. Big enough to crawl through, and he directs his team out, out, out. But doesn’t go. He forces himself to remain upright, coming to Brittany’s side. “Lieutenant? Lieutenant.”

Corporal Hobbs has crawled over to his team, and they’re gathered around the Sergeant’s unmoving body. His Dæmon is all cut up from the glass. Lieutenant Brittany’s face is harsh and her eyes wet and a little wild. Disbelief. Despair.

“We got to get out, people,” John says. “That’s an order.”

She doesn’t move. “Sir,” is all she says, all she manages to say.

“I know, Lieutenant.”

Shit, the Sergeant is dead. It was going to be a simple diplomatic mission and a marine is dead in a freak accident. No, not accident – someone did this. Deliberate action.

Someone’s murdered their marine.

“Nadeau, Hobbs, get out of here – that’s an order. LT, I’ve got his shoulders.”

LC Nadeau and Corporal Hobbs crawl and wobble out of the ruined vehicle, and John follows with Brittany, the LT jerking into action unsteadily, instinctively moving when he orders her to. Carrying the body between them. It’s heavier work than it should be, shoulders sore and John is slightly disorientated, and it’s an effort to get out without cutting themselves up on the glass.

His Raven reaches the daylight first, hesitatingly testing their wings. Stretching. Nothing broken. They quickly take flight and find a vantage point, a tree – there, that’s a good spot.

From there, they can see the wreck.

The train has been torn apart and the track is a mess. They can see the explosion’s point of origin further away, the impact beneath the locomotive which has almost been thrown clear off the track altogether. Bent metal, gravel cast up in an uneven circle. Their carriage was torn from the others. The locomotive, its sturdiness disturbed, is on its side, engines still helplessly trying to run for a little while more, wheels turning slower slower slower until they come to a halt. Debris and coal strewn over the grass and remnants of fires burning; the carriage in front of theirs – several yards away – is full of flickering flames, thick smoke emanating from its center.

There’s no sign of life at first, but after a moment, there’s movement from another ruined carriage. Tholusians crawling out. Who is anyone’s guess. John’s first priority is his people.

Teyla helps Rodney sit on the grass some way from the crash site. Brittany’s face is bone-white and Hobbs’ uniform askew, but neither appear to be severely injured. Bruises. Nadeau grips her medkit tight and rushes to Teyla’s side. Medical training kicking in: triage _._ Teyla’s nose looks broken, and Brittany stumbles, glances at her ankle, pain just now setting in, adrenaline receding. Could be twisted from the fall; Nadeau quickly directs Hobbs to take a look at the LT, check her ankle if it’s broken or sprained. Rodney’s dry heaving, and John doesn’t know if that’s a physical injury or queasiness or emotional shock –

 _We need more medics_ – where the hell will they get them? The Gate is miles away.

Ford’s clutching his sidearm and dazedly looking around. John realizes the weight on his back is missing – his pack. He’s got supplies there and a dismantled P-90, ammo. If. They might need it. _Someone planted that – caused the explosion_ – Suddenly determined John turns back to the carriage and peers into it. There. Wedged in a corner. Almost missed it because of the smoke.

“Sir,” Ford says, a token protest.

“Hang on, LT,” John says, stumbling back into the carriage, covering his nose. His eyes water. He blinks again, and fumbles to grab the pack. It’s stuck and he tugs and pulls and swears quietly until he gets it free. Snaps it on.

Shy continues to let him see: Ronon refuses to sit down. His arm must be dislocated, and John hopes it isn’t broken. His right, the one he usually draws with, so he’s transferred his particle magnum to his left and his Dæmon sniffs at the air. John can sense it too. The rising smoke, fire getting closer. Shit, shit. They’ve got to get further away.

And what about the other parts of the train? The Ministers and their entourage, the servants – are they alive? The movement they saw earlier … _(We need to send an SOS.)_

“What, what the hell happened?” Ford gasps.

Rodney says: “Bomb.” And then he throws up.

John is halfway out of the carriage.

And then, of course, things get worse because they always fucking do.

“Surrender your weapons, please.” The voice isn’t that grating tilt of a nobleman; the accent is thick, translated by the Gate. Ford, the least wounded of his team, whips around, 9mil raised.

John freezes inside of the carriage and (instinct taking over) (a warzone) drops to the ground, could play dead if he needs to, and he wishes he had a scope ready. Regrets it because, oh, that’s why he’s dizzy. Did he get a concussion? Beckett is going to have a field day when they get back.                              (When they – if they – **when** they get back.)

The people flooding the hill are factory workers with grim faces. At least two dozen men, and they’re armed but not like the Tholusian guards: a mismatched bunch of rifles and honest-to-god pitchforks and some mean-looking knives. They pour over the hill and surround the broken carriage from two directions. But what worries John more than their motley weaponry are their numbers and cold faces and what Rodney said. _Bomb?_ What kind of explosive was it, and do these people have more hiding someplace?

_We are so screwed._

“Please, surrender your weapons and no one will be harmed,” the appointed leader of the group, a step ahead of the others, says. Kind of burly, rusty beard, gloved hands. He’s holding a rifle of some sort.

Ford’s glancing to his left and right. _C’mon, LT_ , John thinks loudly but of course the Lieutenant can’t hear him.

The Lieutenant must be realizing that his CO isn’t in the vicinity, and the angry workers aren’t aware. “You killed one of our people.”

The ringing in John’s ear rises in pitch and his body wants to sway, and possibly vomit, but he _refuses_ to move. He relies almost entirely on Shy to see, to listen. Ford’s too pale and Teyla dramatically covered in blood, and Rodney’s hunched over.

The Lead Guy of the factory workers is a thickly-bearded, tall, thin man. Not a warrior with over-developed trapezius muscle, but still sturdy-looking, and his Dæmon has a mean set of teeth.

“It wasn’t our intention, offworlders,” the Lead Guy says. “As soon as our demands are met, we’ll let you go.”

Intentionally or not, Bergqvist is dead. This guy’s words mean _nothing_ and frankly John is pissed off enough to start a fight. He’s only scared they wouldn’t be able to finish it; too many of them; his team’s injured. Even if he gave the signal, surprised them, and he and Ford and Ronon got half a dozen shots off before the crowd lunged …

“I don’t believe you,” Ford says. “Who are you and what the hell do you want?”

A man next to the Lead Guy – his Number One? – murmurs: “Lasat, look at their weapons. Much more advanced than the Palace guard.”

 “We’re workers at the processing plant you just visited,” the Lead Guy explains. “And we’re sorry, but we can’t let you fulfil the deal you made with the Minister. Please cooperate.”

“And if we do not?” Teyla says softly, dignified even.

Outnumbered, outgunned. _That one time we don’t pack heavy artillery, there’s a damn IED._

If. If he could. Distract them somehow. Shy could fly up and play target and (maybe) give the team enough time to escape, and he could rush out of the carriage with his sidearm raised. No time to assemble the P-90, but. The ruined wreckage is behind them and the angry factory workers a tightening circle, but his Raven has spotted a small opening to the right. If they could clear it …

(and run? where? the town with the Stargate is miles away, and they have wounded and a dead body and John cannot leave them behind).

“Cease this!” a shout, interrupting; Minister Nadras, all roughed up, but alive. Minister Darrell is there, too, a walking bruise, quiet. Their fine clothes are ruined and smeared with ash and droplets of blood. They’re held by two factory workers and there’s no sign of the guards. John’s belly sinks like a stone.

“You!” yells the second man, the one who’d urged Lead Guy – Lasat? – to be cautious. Or maybe he’s just curious about the Terran weaponry. John tensely, slowly inches a finger to land on the trigger of his 9mil, ready to draw, but feels a little sick all the same. If these people are workers, commoners, civilians – god, can he open fire? It’s not a mob of hungry Wraith;

“Easy, Radel,” Lead Guy says, holding out a hand to stop the guy in question from marching across the field to meet the Minister. And John’s seen that look before. Whoever this Radel is, whatever his reasons, he clearly wants the Minister dead.

“Where’s Sheppard?” Rodney blurts. Regaining his bearings and realizing, and John holds back a sigh. He closes his eyes briefly, then realizes he might pass out so he opens them again. Rodney raises his head, looks around, eyes widening in a sudden onset of panic.

 _I’m fine,_ John whispers, hinting at an impression of where he is. Rodney stares in the direction of the carriage.

There’s a murmur, and then Lasat, the Lead Guy, says: “Search the other carriages for survivors.”

 _Okay, so that’s not going to work._ There’s no way in hell John could fight them off, and he’s pretty sure they’re not going to fall for it if he plays dead. Game’s up.

Before any of the workers get into the carriage, John quickly takes off his pack and shoves the 9mil in there, zipping the bag closed. Then he stands up on legs that feel not unlike jelly and lets himself be dragged out by one of the workers, whose grip isn’t too kind.

“We can’t find no others,” the guy says, “and no dead.”

 “We have wounded who need medical attention,” Teyla says.

“Give up your weapons and we’ll let you treat them,” Lasat says.

John nods at Ford who lowers his 9mil to the ground, safety on, and the others follow suit. Lasat orders some of his fellows to gather the weapons: everything, the 9mils, the knives, even the TAC vests, and their radios, earpieces. Everything. They wrench the pack from him and take Neadeau’s medkit. They search Bergqvist’s body and disarms it too.

Anger festers darkly in John’s heart. He motions for Nadeau and Ford to get to work, and the Lance Corporal checks on Teyla while Ford takes a look at Ronon’s arm.

He hears Rodney dry heave again. John walks to his side, and no one stops him but the weapons pointed their way don’t waver. Squats at his side.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks softly.

“No,” Rodney moans miserably. “Oh my god. I think I’ve lost my esophagus.”

“You haven’t, Rodney. Put your head between your knees and take a few deep breaths. In and out. In, out. That’s it. Keep breathing.”

Meanwhile, Minister Nadras practically froths at the mouth like a rabid dog. “This felony will not be tolerated! When the Chancellor hears of this, you’ll be hanged for treason!”

“We count on you to communicate with the Chancellor,” Lasat says. “The rest are going to be hostages until our demands are met.”

Minister Nadras stiffens. “I will do no such thing.”

“You will, if you want the offworlders and your fellow Minister to live.”

“Hey, hey,” John says, standing up but remaining at Rodney’s side. “No one needs to be hanged. For anything.”

“Please tell me, offworlders, in your homeland, don’t workers demand rights that should be the same for all men?”

 _Oh, hell._ This is a planet in the midst of industries rising and capitalism taking hold without labor unions and, oh, John should’ve stopped being so **naïve** and seen it fucking _coming_. The disaster. Inevitably. It’s going to fucking damn well until now;

“We do,” he says carefully, rising but not leaving Rodney’s side. “We protest and form unions, but we don’t kill innocent people for it.”

The derailing of a train is not an impulsive act. This must’ve been in the works for a long time, and their timing simply sucks. Or the workers were spurred into action earlier than planned when John made that deal with Minister Nadras, easily overheard. A journey with two officials: a perfect target. And John made that deal in the factory, without thinking about consequences whatsoever beyond ‘naquadah is good, we need it’ _._ So so so fucking naïve and John wants to shoot himself in the foot.

 _Maybe the Minister lied,_ flashes through his mind, _maybe they don’t produce that much naquadah – only wish they did – or they do, at what cost? And we just demanded they make more._

“Sir,” Ford says, “you’re bleeding, I need to take a look.”

“Check on McKay first.”

“Sir –”

“That’s an order.”

Ford sighs, realizing that argument is futile, and concedes. Rodney doesn’t wave him away, and only complains very quietly. Subdued. Reality’s sinking in, and Mer’s curled up against Rodney’s chest, seeking cover. Shock, trembling in the air;

“Look,” John says to the Lead Guy, “I understand why you’re doing this. But one of my people is dead. Because of you. We’re expected to check in with our people through the Stargate soon and when that doesn’t happen, this is only going to get much more complicated.”

“We’re aware of the risks,” Lasat defends himself, their cause. He turns his back and gives his men orders, and they form a circle around their hostages. “You’re coming with us.”

John offers Rodney an arm to hang onto, which is grasped woozily, grip clenching and unclenching. His breathing’s better now, at least. Teyla, Ronon and the marines form a cluster behind them. Brittany quickly grabs Bergqvist’s dog tags, and John does not want to leave the body behind like that to be ravaged by birds and beasts of prey or scavengers.

“I’m sorry, there is no time,” Lasat says.

“Your apologizes mean nothing,” Teyla says, her usual diplomacy given way to harshness. “We demand to bring him with us to be buried properly in our manner.”

Lasat wavers. “Find something to carry him on, then.”

They make a stretcher out of fallen branches from the nearby tree and the tainted fabrics from the train; Ford crawls back into the carriage to rip some out. They cover the dead marine’s face with another piece of cloth. The loud colors make John’s eyes water. His left ear is still ringing, faintly.      intermittent.           a bell;

They haven’t seen the Raven. Or, rather, they’ve assumed they’re just a bird of carrion, a wild thing. Not a Dæmon. John has Shy remain in the tree for a while, huddled on a branch. Looking.

Maybe they could come up with a plan.

* * *

They walk for twenty, thirty minutes to a place which looks on the outside to be a farmhouse with a barn. No lights in the windows or smoke from the chimney. Abandoned? John’s neck hurts too much to turn, but Shy lets him see the disappearing railway. Smoke rises and the locomotive’s caught on fire, a second explosion waiting to happen any minute now, so his Dæmon takes flight to get out of harm’s way.

A signal. They expect to be seen. Heard. Found?

The march is silent. The workers don’t speak, and Minister Dorrell is real quiet; Minister Nadras has been released, and he scurried from the crash site like a scared rabbit. John figures it’s fifty-fifty that the Minister will tell the Chancellor to listen to the workers’ instructions, try to negotiate; or he’ll simply sound an alarm and call in troops, whatever shape this world’s military has. God, John should’ve tried to find out more. What kind of support could they expect?

They met earlier with Commodore Eshten, and Chancellor Ferna mentioned a General. Jahat. Who’s … overseas? That’s what the Chancellor said. But how could he be overseas if only one continent is inhabited? Or – is it another lie?

He scrubs irately at his face with his bound hands. The bindings itch and if he moves around too much hell scrape open the skin; it’s one of the toughest knots he’s ever encountered. Blood’s gathered and dried on his neck and shoulder, but the bleeding feels like it’s stopped. Doesn’t feel as lightheaded as before or at least it isn’t getting any worse.

They’ve all been tied by the wrists and the workers threatened to use nets to subdue their Dæmons if they didn’t cooperate – Ronon’s great cat was more than ready to pounce. The ex-Runner is probably ready to take them all on, but John had shook his head when Ronon lifted his head in challenge and his Dæmon bared her fangs.

Brittany’s team brings up the rear, carrying the stretcher with the Sergeant’s body between them; Nadeau also supports Brittany, an arm on her shoulder. The LT walks slowly because of her injured ankle. None of them speak. Sometimes, John catches the marines looking in his direction, seeking a command, an order – if he gave the word, they’d follow.

Not yet. It’s too risky.

Rodney stumbles but catches himself before the fall.

“Need to throw up again?” John murmurs.

“No, I just remembered how screwed we are.”

“Elizabeth will figure something out.”

“Check-in’s due for … six hours. Six hours,” Rodney repeats in a low voice, “which is enough time for this social revolution of theirs to go to hell. You realize what it means they have naquadah? Right before the explosion, the scanned detected the energy signature.”

“That … was a naquadah bomb?”

“Nothing like our warheads but, yes, a small amount. I’d say five to seven grams incorporated with crude gunpowder.”

So. The workers don’t just know how to dig for and refine the metal. They know it can be used for weaponry, to enhance blasts. Which must mean the Tholusian government also is aware of the metal’s properties. Chancellor Ferna had failed to mention that. Minister Nadras had claimed they only used the naquadah for their infrastructure: a useful, strong metal if mixed with others. Thinking about all of this and the mess they’re in makes John’s head hurt more, but he’s got to think about it to find a solution.

“Think the Tholusian government will retaliate?” John whispers.

“Yes,” Rodney sniffs, “and I’m mostly concerned about how much they’re willing to sacrifice to subdue this social justice revolt. Say, _us_.”

“Lead Guy seems like he wants to negotiate.”

“Oh, yes, blowing up a railway and derailing a train is a _great_ way to say ‘Hey, we want some more rights, please negotiate with us’.”

Any other day, Rodney’s snark might have been amusing. Familiar. A comfort. John’s head aches, a pounding grinding sort of pain, and he sort of wants to sit down. He doesn’t take the bait.

Faced with silence, Rodney’s gaze presses onto his back.

“How’s your head?”

“Y’know. Been better. Been worse.”

“…you had a plan, before. And I ruined it.”

Rodney sounds so miserable.

“Wasn’t a plan,” John sighs. Hell, he just wanted to get to his pack, and now one of the workers has it in a tight grip. Haven’t searched through it yet, though, and if they find the P-90 they shouldn’t be able to assemble it. “Not your fault.”

They reach the farmstead and the workers usher them into the barn: a wide structure, dusty, and there are no animals but the smell of the lingers unpleasantly. The hay is dry and there are a few tools lying about, rusty and unsharp. Lasat orders them to sit down in a line against one of the walls, and John sighs a little as he sinks down.

“Sir,” Ford says quietly, inching to his side. “I really should have a look at your head.”

 _Nothing wrong with it,_ John almost retorts, before he remembers, oh, that’s blood and oh, right, he might’ve blacked out earlier. Which is bad. He’s rapidly failing the steps of self-assessment in a crisis.

“Hey, you.” Ford raises his voice to get the factory workers’ attention. “One of those bags you took from us, that’s a medkit. I need it to treat their injuries.” Ford sounds fairly calm about it, but his Dæmon is like a bowstring all taunt and barely keeping a hiss in their throat. “The Colonel’s still bleeding, and the Lieutenant’s ankle should be bound.”

Bleeding? Oh. John can’t feel that.

The Lead Guy nods his assent. “Give them the medical supplies.”

“I need my hands to work.”

Lasat’s lip curls in displeasure. Clearly, he’s stressed, and maybe he’s begun understanding his mistake. Knows little to nothing about the Tau’ri and their capabilities.

“It’s not a good idea,” argues the other guy, Radel.

An argument starts to brew among their captors.

“I just need to medkit and my hands free so I can treat our wounded,” Ford says. “I’m not going to kick up a fuss or try to escape or whatever. You have my word.”

John can’t bother waving Rodney off when he, as if truly noticing the blood for the first time, pokes at his shoulder. “Do you have a concussion? You probably have a concussion,” annoyed, blame unidirectional, as if this whole thing is _John’s_ fault; John flinches minutely, Rodney’s knotted hands are oddly cold as they come in contact with his neck as if to check his pulse.

 _I’m fine,_ nearly slips out, a habitual sentence. Rodney glares at him, and John snaps his jaws shut with click.

“No tricks,” Lasat warns.

Ford’s bonds are cut. He turns to John first, ignoring his muttered feeble order that he should look the others, that he’s fine. They reset Ronon’s arm earlier but there was no time to properly check for other wounds. What if the marines or his team have internal injuries from the impact?

The Lieutenant fishes out a flashlight from the pack and shines it into his eyes. Makes him queasy. But his vision isn’t blurry and whatever he sees can’t be that bad because Ford doesn’t immediately frown in concern.

Ford works efficiently; he had some medical training before joining the Expedition, and over the years he’s learnt even more. Has patched up the team in dire situations, and helped out locals on various worlds. There was this kid with a broken arm, once, which Ford neatly splinted. And that woman on Balkan they realized had diabetes, which would kill almost anyone in Pegasus, so Ford taught her how to inject herself and dose the meds, which they have teams to drop off at regular intervals: so far the woman has survived.

Almost inaudibly, barely moving his lips, Ford asks: “How are we getting out of this one, sir?”

John has no idea. Yet. He can’t formulate a sentence, but hopes Ford understands what the tries to convey with his expression.

The only ace up his sleeve is Shy. If he could figure out how. when. to use them best.

While the Lieutenant works, the workers in the background speak in lulling, rising voices. Staccato. Seems someone’s having regrets.

“… the risk’s too great.”

“We’ve all agreed to this plan –”

“And if the Minister brings a battalion of soldiers to make us pay? I don’t think they’ll listen. You know how the Senate works! None of them care. Our families will suffer!”

“Ferna will listen,” Lasat says resolutely. “She’s is more reasonable than the last mongrel of a Chancellor, and we have hostages. Didn’t you hear? These strangers, they’re allies to the Tholus Republic, and the Chancellor won’t risk their deaths. It’d be a catastrophe.”

“Your dreams are too far-fetched, Lasat. And you truly think that is how the politicians’ minds work?”

“If you disagree, why are you here? Did you give away our secrets to the Palace guard?”

“What? No! I wouldn’t betray our cause –”

“He wouldn’t be a traitor!” someone else shouts.

Ford cleans up the wound with antiseptic – stings – and John wants to close his eyes. Doesn’t. This is not the time to get tired and pass out, and he focuses on breathing and listening to the workers. If he could catch any snippet of information that could help them. If. His mouth is dry.

One of the factory workers – tall, broad, maybe chosen for this duty because he’s somewhat like Ronon with that loom – stands guard over them uncomfortable close, and he’s got a rifle distrustfully pointed half-way to the floor, ready to use it. John doesn’t want his people getting too close to the armed men; triggers too short.

“Sir,” Ford says, “bleeding’s stopped and since you’re awake now I think you’re mostly okay, but head injuries make me nervous. You have a concussion. I think you should sit still for a while. You’ve lost a bit of blood. Did you pass out before?”

“Think so.” How long is another question. A few seconds or a minute? Everything around them was chaotic before and after.

Loss of consciousness: a sign it was a bad impact. Ford’s face is clouded. “Okay, I think we should stich that. It’s a nasty cut.”

Ah, fuck. John hoped to avoid that. “What about the others?” John asks.

“Nothing major. We fixed Ronon’s arm, and the LT’s ankle is sprained,” Ford says, prepping the medical needle and thread.  Rodney nauseously looks away.

The workers are still arguing, and a noise is growing outside: a low rumble. John’s brain scrambles to recognize the engine, but he’s better at aircraft than at cars, and they’re millions of lightyears from any Terran vehicles he can name. It’s defiantly a combustion engine of some kind.

“– and it was your decision –”

“Lasat!” a new voice shouts, fairly young. Someone rushes into the barn. “Lasat, we have the communication device.”

_So they do have radios. Comms. Funny, never saw any._

“You’ve contacted the Palace?”

“Yes, the frequency was correct,” the newcomer, little more than a boy, maybe seventeen years old and already worn from hard labor, nods eagerly. He’s carrying a box of metal, with wires sneaking from it past the crowd and through the half-open barn doors. He sets it down on the dusty, hay-covered floor and presses a button, turns a dial, pulls out a meter-long antenna. There’s a microphone, reminiscent of what would be used in the thirties or forties, mostly metal. A radio. Transmitter and receiver. So, this is how they’re going to negotiate with the Chancellor.

The noise that’s been building up outside of the barn. That’s a car, a vehicle running unmoving. Must be using the engine to provide power for the radio device.

A whining noise. Static.

Lasat pats the boy’s back. “Good work, son.”

The needle pricks but it’s not the first emergency surgery John has had. Though this definitely lands in the top five of Worst Locations. (Rather be in the infirmary. Pain meds. No weapons pointed at them.)

He can’t move his head while Ford works. From the corner of his eye, he sees how Teyla’s jaw is set and Ronon could pounce any second without hesitation, barely reined in. Lieutenant Brittany is still pale, riding the shock of losing a teammate and god, it’s all wrong and fucked up. Lance Corporal Nadeau is at Brittany’s side and Corporal Hobbs on the other, and they’re awake and breathing and not having a panic attack right at this moment, so that’s something.

After a second, Corporal Hobbs lifts his head and nods, briefly. A signal that could be _We’re ready to fight if we need to._ To follow his lead. John considers. An attack. But how? What order should he give? Everything is spinning.

Minister Dorrell is quiet, head bowed. She might’ve cried before, John’s not sure, didn’t have time to notice. Shock. Her clothes are ruffled. Doesn’t look badly injured: could be shock.

“Chancellor Ferna,” Lasat says into the radio. “Can you hear me?”

Static, breaking up. The signal is poor. _“… who speaks?”_

“My name is Lasat. I speak for the workers of the naquadah refinery in the northern province.”

Another moment of silence. Ford’s finished the last stich and cleans up, pulls off the medical gloves.

_“Minister Nadras has informed me of the circumstances.”_

“Then you understand. We have the offworld strangers and Minister Dorrell hostage.”

_“What are your demands?”_

“We demand you write a new executive order to cease the forced labor in not only the northern but _all_ provinces. We are separated from our families and work away our lives in lethal conditions, for the sake of the expansion of Ernaus City and your armories, while the rest of us are left with nothing. It must change. Beginning with reasonable pay so that we can support our families without fear of starvation! Write the order and we’ll release the hostages.”

 _“… I need time to consider your offer, Lasat,”_ Chancellor Ferna says. _“What is the condition of the people you are holding hostage?”_

John realizes, suddenly, that this is never going to work. Of course the hell not! These workers are, what, a couple of dozen? They’re desperate and angry and, if what Lasat is saying is true, rightly so. Fighting for their survival and their rights and their families. But this can only end in tears and more bloodshed. The train, the killed Sergeant; and if they killed the guards (the noise of gunshots as he blinked into consciousness) – Chancellor Ferna can easily retaliate with a battalion of well-armed, trained soldiers and gun down the workers.

She’s a politician and John has no real solid grasp of her, or the Tholusians really, not yet. Not been here long enough. Their politics and views of the world. Such a violent retaliation isn’t impossibly beyond the facets of reality.

“They’re alive and unharmed,” Lasat says.

“‘Unharmed’?!” Rodney squeaks indignantly.

 _Alive._ Lasat makes no mention of the murdered guards or the dead marine. John’s blood boils coldly. He wants to shout, protest that no, Lasat is a **liar** ; there is a corpse not yet cold, neck broken from the violent throw.

He doesn’t move.

“If we don’t hear a reply by midday, that might change.”

 _“We hear your words,”_ the Chancellor says. _“I must warn you, Lasat, that any hostile action could be an act of treason, a threat to our general well-being. We do not take such things lightly.”_

Query: will the Chancellor reach out, or attack? Will she contact the Alpha Site to inform them that the Tau’ri are in trouble? John wets his lower lip and wishes he had some answers.

“Midday,” Lasat says, and the radio is turned off.

 _How long’s that?_ John nudges Rodney’s elbow with his own.

“Planet’s rotation is twenty-one and a half hours. Well. Twenty-one point four. So, an hour, if midday is when the sun’s highest in their sky,” Rodney whispers.

Too little time for Elizabeth to do anything. They don’t know about the situation and if the Chancellor doesn’t inform them – they’re not due to dial Atlantis for a check-in for six hours. If the workers use that age-old threat of killing off one person at a time until their demands are met …

Rodney swallows audibly. _Think …?_

 _No,_ John answers firmly, _it won’t come to that._

* * *

The open fields are yellow and brown and green, a rich yield.

The Raven flies in a circuit, takes a good look around. Memorizes the patterns of the crops, the little farmhouse, the barn, the beaten path. Small specks of woodland here and there. The broken railway. The distances. The direction of the wind and the most likely place an attack might come from.

The town is to the east, by the sun, only visible on the horizon when his Dæmon climbs higher. Marching on foot it’d take at least an hour to get here; matches with the timeframe of Minister Nadras being escorted from the wreck site to the city. Add to that the time needed to assemble troops …

They don’t have until midday.

After some time, the Raven circles down to land on the barn roof. The crest of worn tiles and weather wood. Raised voices below.

They wait.

* * *

His butt is going numb.

Rodney anxiously shifts. Tries sitting with his legs out, and then cross-legged, but nothing really helps. It must be the stress, too. Yeah. This is highly stressful, and, sure, his team’s been in trouble before. Wraith, Genii. Disgruntled locals. Held at gunpoint. This is a first, though: being held hostage in a tug-of-war between resentful, angry factory workers and a less than helpful regime.

Oh, and the whole thing with a naquadah-enhanced (or based?) explosive device makes him … nervous. And curious. Which one of these workers built it? Is there a scientist among them?

(And Rodney can sort of understand. He’s built his own share of weaponry of various degrees of lethality and complexity; at first, he hadn’t even asked questions what the weapons would be used for, against, to destroy and kill and turn lives upside down. Hadn’t … cared. Slowly, he’s relearned, overwritten that way of thinking. Whoever built the bomb that derailed the train must be calculatingly cold but also angry, upset, seeking justice.)

Rodney’s seriously starting to regret this mission. He was enthusiastic, at first. The possibilities. Happy when he saw the engines and lightbulbs and oh, oh, the naquadah which Sheppard arranged a nice price for.

 _Note to self,_ Mer mutters wryly, _no more naquadah trading missions._

Seriously. Worst honeymoon ever.

They feel a bit better now. Stopped dry heaving and throwing up (god, he _hates_ that) and no longer dizzy. The way John held his shoulders and breathed with him, in and out and in and out, helped. In hindsight, Rodney realizes he was verging on a panic attack.

The bomb and the train. God, what if they die here? He hasn’t won his Noble Prize yet! Even been _nominated_!

The ropes itch and the bonds are too tight and the pressure in his bladder is slowly building up. By his calculations, they’ve been sitting here, stuck in this barn – no animals, but it stinks – for nearly an hour. Mostly in silence. The workers, restlessly, exchange brief words, heated conversations. Seems like they’re divided but they’ve made their choices.

John’s silent, and from this angle Rodney can’t get a good look at his wound. Which is both good and bad, because the thought makes him queasy. That’s an awful lot of blood, and head wounds can be lethal.

He remembers the bang and the carriage wrenching sideways, and seeing John being flung to the ceiling, and then Rodney was flung up to and crashed into him. He broke his datapad and glass rained like a brilliant shower, it was almost pretty;

The scan he got, moments before it happened, were clear as day. Naquadah-enhanced dynamite. Which. God. Any more than those few grams, and the railway wouldn’t have been ruined as much as wiped from the face of this planet, the billowing cloud swallowing the train and everyone in it.

After an eternity, the leader of this motley crew – Lasat? – turns the radio on again.

“Chancellor. It’s midday. What’s your answer?”

_“We need more time to deliberate in the Senate.”_

Rodney’s heartbeat picks up pace. God. Someone’s going to die. Why can’t the Chancellor just send some soldiers or something and bust them out? A rescue team? Something?

Has Atlantis been informed?

“Please understand our desperation, Chancellor. We don’t want to hurt anyone. But we will if we must.”

Urgently, dreadfully, Rodney wants to do a hundred things at once. To race from the barn, flee, run to the Stargate miles from here. To hide. To grab John’s arm and Teyla and Ford and Ronon, drag them to safety – something he couldn’t visualize two years ago but now it’s startingly simple – but where’d they run? He wants, needs, to come up with a brilliant plan to save their asses, but this is not a situation where a visionary insight into Ancient technology or the physics of spacetime will do them any good.

“Our fight isn’t with the offworlders,” Lasat says. “But Minister Dorrell suppresses our voice. The workers’ vote was used against us, no promises fulfilled. Schools for our children? Not being built, and if they are they have no teachers. Safer factories so that we do not die there? I say the Minister has made a mistake.”

That selfish part of Rodney’s brain is so, so relieved. That they aren’t picked. But Dorrell’s gaze is wet with tears and they had such a brilliant discussion earlier about combustion engines and how to improve them – yesterday, Rodney was certain he could improve the Tholusian technology by a factor of a hundred, more; the question of who the technology was _for_ never came into play.

“Please,” Minister Dorrell sobs.

At his side, John stirs. “Listen, no one has to die. There’s got to be some other way to settle this.”

“If you kill the Minister, you will only bring the wrath of the Chancellor upon you,” Teyla says. An undercurrent of emotion kept under wraps, so stable; she sounds so calm. “We understand the dire need for change, but this is not the way.”

“And what is?” Lasat counters.

Teyla doesn’t have an immediate answer.

“Radel,” Lasat says, “take the Minister outside.”

“No! Please! _Please_!”

Rodney swallows tightly.

“We got to do something,” Ford hisses.

Like what? Brawl their way out?

Minister Dorrell is dragged out of sight. Rodney stares in horror.

“Lasat. Listen, if you kill the Minister, the Chancellor is going to send in troops. Trust me, I know how their minds work,” John says. “She’ll use it as reason to have you all punished and probably killed, and you’ll be made an example, and this revolution of yours? it’s going to be set back. You need go gain the Chancellor’s trust. Too many people have died already.”

“You’re right,” Lasat says, “they have. Hundreds in the mines and in the factories. Children to disease and hunger. No more. Justice begins here.”

Rodney’s associated protests for social justice with people waving signs and highway blockages which are annoying but not that much of a hassle, in hindsight, and when laws have changed for the better who is he to complain? But maybe he doesn’t, can’t, _really_ understand. He’s from a different planet and doesn’t worry about his safety. Well, he does, but not like this. He has a choice to walk away from danger – the SGC – and could still easily make a living, a minor fortune if he put the effort into it; these workers don’t have that choice.

Frankly, it’s _backward_. He’s just been … slow on the uptake.

By the looks of things, the others were too.

John’s expression is carved like stone. A marble statue. Rodney’s gotten better at reading them by eye, not having to rely on their Bond to make sense of John’s thought patterns, and last time he saw something similar things were very different. Last time John exuded this particular emotion so clearly, Kolya attacked the City and John shot him in the head;

(Last time Rodney felt something similar himself – god, he can’t remember all the times. Being terrified. For himself. For his team. It happens far, far too often. – he felt it once on that planet with the Wraith that Refused to Die, when it had killed Gaul and Brennan and Sheppard was next –)

The Minister cries and pleads. There is a sharp bang, and then nothing at all.

Rodney has stopped breathing. He stares at the barn door. Sunlight behind it.

_Oh my god, they actually – Oh my god._

_Oh my god, we’re going to die here._

Lasat turns on the radio again. “Chancellor, you didn’t give the right answer. We’ll give you until nightfall. If we don’t hear from you by then, the offworlders are next.”


	4. fuel to fire, part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dr Weir stands firm. “dial.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-12-28) Hello, and a belated happy Christmas / Hanukkah / Yule / whichever, if any, applies to you! I for one am trying to enjoy a couple of weeks off, only I've come down with the flu. I haven't abandoned this fic. I know it's been awhile - I've been busy lately, and barely had time to even think about writing. This update is kind of short, but expect more next year. And if I don't manage to update until then: Happy New Year!

**iv.**

# fuel to fire

**part three**

_Dr Weir stands firm. “dial.”_

* * *

Another grey day. It’s rained, steadily, for the past two days. It fits with the planet’s weather cycles, nothing unexpected, but the mud is starting to become an issue. Especially in the Barracks.

The Alpha Site is one of the most time-consuming posts of the Atlantis Expedition. Pretty much every marine in the City would say so, and they’ve all been here at one point or another since they began constructing Base Camp last year. Sergeant Bates sent out a memo after they decided on M99-108, declaring an obligatory rotation for all marines. Considers it good training.

The typical rotation is for a week. It’s different from the City. Especially after getting comfortably used to the running water, the hot showers, the food nicely served with lots of variety and choice, the availability of entertainment, the security of the shield and cloaking device and Gate iris. By comparison, duty on the Alpha Site is about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Markham and his team have been on Watch Duty along with one of the Rookie teams (not that they like being talked about that way), AR-13, for five days. Kind of looking forward for it to be over; Captain Yates and his team will stay a bit longer, taking over the reins as Markham and his team return to the City’s luxurious comforts. Part of their initiation to Atlantis. Every marine has got to be a hundred percent familiar with the Alpha Site. Just in case. Just in case.

Base Camp has grown significantly since they built the first tentative shelter. More buildings have been added, the paths solidly trodden, and since they’ve figured out the climate patterns for M99-108, Botany has even started growing food in small greenhouses. Terran stuff, tomatoes and cucumbers and potatoes, to one day supply the City. (Just in case.)

At the moment, the place is quiet. The Geeks are busy repairing the Aurora and so the marines, plus a botanist – Dr Gregor at the moment – are the only ones here. The schedule was set up weeks before, planned without Markham and the others, and the duties ordinary: watch the Gate; monitor the subspace comms system; workout and run the track; water that plant every day but _not_ _that one_ and spray those over there every three days – Dr Gregor takes care of that mostly, but all marines are given directions too. (The Botany Department’s instructions had been _very_ specific, and an upset Dr Parrish is not something to be trifled with.)

Quiet, but for the rain smattering on the roof. And an exasperated Sergeant.

“What the hell is this?”

Markham holds up the muddy boots and shakes them for emphasis.

Rutherford sighs. He’s more than used, by now, to Markham’s nitpicking. “I was going to do it first thing this morning, I swear. It’s just _us_ here, Sergeant. And Dr Gregor doesn’t care, he spends all day in the mud talking to his plants, so.”

Yamato sits on the edge of his bunk and laces up his own (pristine) boots. He gives his teammate a look. Clearly, he didn’t say the right thing.

“God damn it,” Markham says, “I _mean_ it.”

“Yeah,” Yamato says, “and you know with the way Captain Yates is breathing down our backs – got to be spit and polish. Don’t want word getting back to the Old Man or, god forbid, Sergeant Bates that we’re slacking off.”

Markham ignores Yamato, for now, and stares down Rutherford instead. “This is the _third_ fucking time, marine. The upkeep of your gear –”

“Oh, here we go,” Yamato says, this song so old it doesn’t even bother him anymore. But it’s okay. He likes his team well enough, and Markham is a good leader (even if he can be the most over-the-top mother hen of two galaxies sometimes).

(Seriously, Yamato thinks the Sergeant needs a break and probably to get laid, to loosen up a bit. Only, last time he suggested that, Markham gave him such a murderous glare Yamato _jumped_ ; never seen the Sergeant’s face twist like that before. So he keeps his mouth shut.)

“Okay, okay, okay,” Rutherford says and grabs the boots and starts looking for a rag to clean them. “Relax, Sergeant. I got it.”

“Speaking of the Captain,” Yamato says, standing up and starting to gear up – checks that everything in his TAC vest is where he left it last night. Yeah, all set. But before he’s going to put it all on, he’s got to get something to eat. “Where’s he and the other guys?”

“Yates is out on the track with Corporal Vasquez. Lieutenant Nelson and Gardner are watching the Gate,” Markham says. “You two are relieving them at oh-seven-hundred local time.”

“Great,” Yamato sighs. “Tell me there’s some of those turkey sandwiches left over for breakfast? I’m starving.”

“Nah, I think Vasquez had them yesterday,” Rutherford says.

“Fuck. More red Jell-O. I hate it.”

“You can tell the Corporal when they get back from their run.”

“Guys,” Markham says, “no fighting. Especially when it’s over something that dumb. I swear I’ll kick your ass myself.”

“It was one time …”

* * *

Gate Watch is simultaneously the most boring and the most exciting bit.

Most of the time, nothing happens. The Gate is still, and they can’t move from their post for hours, and the chitchat quickly dulls. Oh, sometimes there’s a real thrill, a hint of outside life: there was that moment, a few months ago, when the Genii contacted them, asked to make a Peace Treaty. But AR-7 wasn’t there at the time. And since the City is supposed to be a secret, allegedly destroyed by the Wraith, it’s the Alpha Site allies are asked to contact in case of an emergency.

Their regular check-ins with the City are on the clock. Nothing scheduled for another five hours. Nelson and Gardner report nothing out of the ordinary. They’ve been standing out here half the night, in the bitter rain, and their faces are gloomy. Yamato dares to tease them a little, on the basis they haven’t been here that long: Second Wavers, the lot of them. But they’re shaping up, though.

Yamato heard that Captain Whitney – another Rookie – from AR-12 has had amazing luck, nothing bad ever happening to his team since they got to Atlantis four months ago. That’s probably a record. Maybe that luck will hold for Recon 13 as well; Captain Yates seems to hold his team in a steady grip. Technically, they’re not _really_ Rookies. Before Atlantis, they were an SG-team, well-versed in space travel.

The woods are quiet, wildlife sparse though alien birds are singing far away. As they take up position either side of the Gate, Rutherford glares balefully at his boots. All of that polishing seems to have been for nothing.

“Hey, remember the magic word,” Yamato says cheerfully, “ _morale_. Isn’t that how Markham would put it?”

“The Sergeant’s fucking high-strung, that’s what,” Rutherford mutters. “I mean, he’d never cheesedick himself through anything, but this week …”

Yamato rolls his eyes, but he understands and he keeps his voice serious. “Yeah, we all noticed. Captain Yates is here and now the Sergeant thinks he’s got to jump mountains to prove himself. Don’t think he slept at all the last few days. I’ve said it before, going to say it again …”

“God, I thought I was going to have to cover for him,” Rutherford says, “you know, for killing you after you said he needed to get laid.”

“So you admit it? You’d let him glare me to death?”

“Well, we’re team.”

“My eyes are on you,” Yamato warns, making the appropriate sign with his left hand as well, pointing at himself and then at Rutherford. “That’s the plot, huh, you’re ganging up on me.”

“Conspiracy theories.”

“My case still stands,” Yamato says firmly, “the Sergeant needs a girlfriend. Or a weekend at some planet with no social inhibitions.”

“Oh, yeah, that’d go down well,” Rutherford laughs. “Tell the Old Man, yeah, can we book the Gate for –”

The Stargate starts to spin. Yamato tenses, reaches for his weapon, and Rutherford’s back straightens. They wait in sudden tense silence as the Stargate’s chevrons lock into place and the wormhole reaches outward, the great kawoosh blinking into existence and flooding the glade with pale light. They take up positions and Rutherford’s already sent a radio call to Base Camp, alerting them.

If it’s Atlantis, they’re early.

Nothing comes through. And then it does: not a person: a radio signal that reaches their walkies.

Confused, Rutherford grabs his walkie talkie, attached to his belt normally. “Who is this?”

There’s some weak interference. _“… of Tholus. It is vital I speak with Dr Weir of the Tau’ri.”_

“Dr Weir isn’t available right now. This is Lieutenant Rutherford.”

 _“Then … to Tholus as soon as possible,”_ the stranger insists, _“it is absolutely vital. Tell Dr Weir that her people … held hostage by a rogue militia, and we req…assistance.”_

Rutherford exchanges a glance with Yamato.

“Understood. We’ll pass on the message and get back to you as soon as we can.”

_“Many thanks.”_

The transmission is cut off as abruptly as it came, and seconds later the Gate shuts down.

“The fuck?” Yamato says. “Did they say our people are being held hostage?”

 _Tholus_. What is …? Rutherford scratches his head, tried to remember why that name rings a bell, distant;

Oh. Shit. Brittany and her team went there, didn’t they? Something Sergeant Bates mentioned on their last check-in with the City: yeah, Brittany’s made first contact with a planet called Tholus and they sent Recon One …

“Dial Atlantis.” He scrambles for his headset. “Sergeant, this is Rutherford. You’d better get here.”

* * *

“… and that’s all the information you got?” Sergeant Bates asks, again.

Rutherford resists the urge to squirm in his seat. The chairs in the City’s conference room are uncomfortable and the lights glaring cold, and the clean warm recycled air is no relief after the rain. He dragged mud across the pristine Ancient floors: his team were recalled from the Alpha Site the moment they told the Sergeant and the Doc the words ‘hostage’ and ‘Tholus’.

Recon One might get in trouble on every mission they go on – like, what is it with Premier Teams? SG-1 seems to be the same – but Brittany and her team … (What was it Major Hurst used to call them in Rookie Training back at the SGC? Yeah. Redshirts. They’re all redshirts, the unfortunate bastards to end up hurt or dead or worse when the Premier Teams tend to walk away scratchless.)

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t like the sound of a rogue militia … it’s too vague,” Bates says.

Dr Weir frowns. She’s listened with little to no interruption to their brief story: Rutherford and Yamato have relied the message as well as they could, nearly word-for-word, including the static.

Then she stands and orders: “Dial Tholus. We may have to negotiate for their release, and I’ll be the one to do so.”

“Ma’am, all due respect, it could be trick,” Bates says. Always so damned paranoid.

Rutherford thinks about Brittany and her team. Being First Wavers, they’ve hung quite a lot in the off hours, and he knows she’s had to deal with a lot of shit, being a woman in the Corps, fighting twice as hard most days. Giving twice as much, yet expecting less. She’s got a good team – had a joint mission once, to a planet where they ended up ambushed by Wraith. Got out alive thanks to AR-6. Back in the first isolated year when Trevor was still on the team, before being replaced by Nadeau. And Bergqvist is new but Rutherford’s spoken with him a few times, run into him in the gym, that kind of thing; he seems an all right guy, though he talks kind of funny, a grating Swedish accent. It’s a good team, and now they’re being held hostage?

What if it’s true and they’re in trouble on that planet? And the Frontiers too – they may have a thousand lives to spare, but the redshirts? Rutherford is pessimistic about the odds (ever since Thompson. Ever since). His heart’s telling him to do one thing and his mind another;

Dr Weir stands firm. “Dial.”

* * *

They recall the Daedalus from its mission. Another lifeline. Dr Weir asks Colonel Caldwell to turn his ship around straight for Tholus – it’ll take them a couple of hours to get there.

Caldwell honestly cannot say he’s that surprised when Dr Weir asks him to deploy the Daedalus earlier than on schedule. They’ve been in orbit around New Lantea for a while, silently watching for threats – the possibility of Wraith never dead – when Dr Weir urgently sends a message, a Stargate address, coordinates from the Ancient database.

Recon One is in trouble.

 _And when aren’t they?_ his Dæmon wryly thinks for them, but they don’t say it out loud.

 _“From what we understand, they have been kidnapped,”_ Dr Weir says in the video link. _“According to the Chancellor of Tholus, they’re held hostage by a rogue militia. We can’t send Jumpers through the Stargate because of the Dome they’ve built over it. However, I am preparing to step through the Gate myself along with a security team to negotiate for their release.”_

“Understood, doctor,” Caldwell says. He isn’t fond of the idea of the Expedition’s leader going offworld in this situation, but she is a diplomat, and hopeful: perhaps the situation can be resolved. Plus, he’s fairly sure Sergeant Bates, in charge of Atlantis’ security, will see to that the best marines in the City are sent with her to Tholus. “We’ll reach the coordinates in three hours, six minutes. We’ll find our people.” It’s as good a promise he can give.

* * *

“Ma’am,” Bates says, again. Deep down he knows it’s quite hopeless. Once Weir has set her mind to something, she can be as stubborn as a marine. And while he is the Head of Security, he cannot technically give her orders. He can suggest, advise, even disobey her to follow a higher ranking officer’s words.

This time, she’s listened to his advice and declined it.

“At least take more marines with you, ma’am.”

“I intend to negotiate and for that I cannot signal hostile intend. Having four armed people with me is stretching it as it is,” Dr Weir says.

Recon Four will do all they can do keep the Doc safe, Bates knows that. They’re good and loyal, and Sergeant MacGrimmon has already sworn to bring the Doc back in one piece as soon as possible – with Recons One and Eight, if they can. (they must.)

“All right, ma’am, but I don’t like it.”

“I’m aware, Sergeant. Banks, dial M11-730.”

MacGrimmon and his team are ready on the floor below, waiting, and as Banks begins the dialing sequence Weir walks down the elaborate Ancient steps to join them. Bates watches, uneasily, from the Control Room. Working with the SGC has jaded him and his faith – his grandmother would be horrified – but right now, he wouldn’t mind some divine intervention on their side.

Before they walk through the puddle, MacGrimmon turns briefly and gives him a nod.

Bates exhales through his nose. The Gate shuts down. The defense teams around the Gate don’t disperse: there are always some marines on duty, waiting for an active wormhole, ready for an incursion. If Bates gave the order, they’ll assemble and go to Tholus, charging through the Gate with the heaviest ammo they got. Hopefully it won’t have to come to that.

“Dial them in an hour for a sitrep,” he says to Banks.

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

He casts a final look at the silent Gate. _Godspeed, doc._


	5. fuel to fire, part four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _are they going to fight their way out? they can’t do that. can they? could they?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2019-06-15) I've been stuck on this chapter for half an eternity, and I feel I can't keep chewing on it any longer - there's meant to be much more to this fic than the Tholus arc. Thank you everyone for reading, leaving kudos and commenting - thank you everyone for your patience!

**v.**

# fuel to fire

**part four**

_are they going to fight their way out? they can’t do that. can they? could they?_

* * *

“I am Elizabeth Weir of the Tau’ri. I’ve come to negotiate the release of my people.”

Elizabeth steps through the event horizon, Recon Four behind her as a security escort, with her palms open outward. She bears no arms, but Sergeant Bates insisted (the argument was hot and brief) that she wear a bullet-proof vest.

The first thing she sees is a long, dark ceiling lined with turrets, tucked into corners and nooks, and flat windowless walls. Electrical lighting. A heavy stone floor. The turrets do not activate. The Stargate sits atop a dais inside of a great Dome, and several Tholusians are waiting a few steps below the Gate. A precise procession of military personnel, their posture perfect and armors polished to a sheen, weapons relaxed at their sides, lined up neatly.

One is obviously their leader. His uniform is more ornate than the others’ and a white feather attached to his helmet. Tall, mid-fifties, Dæmon a little grey. Elizabeth can’t recall exactly who he might be from AR-8’s reports. Did they meet this man at all?

The man lays his right hand on his chest, near the left clavicle, and bows his neck.

“Greetings, Elizabeth Weir. I am Commodore Eshten of the Third Guard. Welcome to Tholus; were the Ancestors more willing the circumstances of our first meeting would not be so dire. Come, I will escort you to the Governmental Palace.”

* * *

Chancellor Ferna has a powerful bearing, yet there is something deceivingly compassionate about her face, and her Dæmon is a gentle thing, innocuous. She reminds Elizabeth a little of General Hammond, although with Hammond she knows there is no lie to his care when it comes to his people. With Chancellor Ferna, she cannot be truly sure; there are too many unknowns.

The car ride was swift and they are ushered through brass-laden corridors to an elaborate room in the heart of the Governmental Palace. Any other time, Elizabeth could have been carefully impressed by the architecture around her; the ride from the Dome to the Palace had been quick and the mood subdued.

During the ride, Commodore Eshten had laid out the facts, in a fashion: the Tau’ri and two Tholusian Ministers held hostage by a rogue militia. But he would not elaborate when Elizabeth asked about this militia, their purpose, their goal, the causes for the strife – the Commodore had evaded the questions. “They are better suited for the Chancellor,” he’d said, and then Elizabeth was certain, deep in her gut, that no answers will be given today – by Chancellor Ferna or anyone.

Working on Earth in the past, she has seen many things. Different countries, different cultures. Different states of decay after or in the middle of conflict and war. Something about this society reminds her of that – an echo of war – but she is biased; her people are missing; there are armed men around them, and the mention about a rogue militia has her on edge. She needs to know more about this world’s politics, its social climate, its structures, to make an assessment.

Sergeant MacGrimmon and his team refuses to leave her side for one second. The Tholusians do not take offense. Commodore Eshten had offered a squadron of his own guards to their added protection, but Elizabeth had declined. She needs to know more of this situation, and surrounding herself with Tholusian soldiers could be a risky move.

Chancellor Ferna greets them on the threshold to the grand chamber, tucked into the center of the Palace: there are no windows, and the light comes from many oil lamps and candles. _Fortified,_ springs to mind. _Hidden,_ another.

“Chancellor Ferna, greetings. I am Doctor Weir of the Tau’ri.”

“Doctor Weir, you came – many thanks. Our first meeting should have been during happier times. You received our transmission?”

“Yes, but it was distorted,” Elizabeth says. “Our marines relayed yours words, though, which is why we’re here to aid in the effort to secure our people’s release.”

“Then you did not hear our whole message?”

“From what I understand,” Elizabeth says, “my people are being held hostage by a rogue militia along with two of yours. Is this correct?”

The Chancellor nods gravely. She shows them to a table in the middle of the room: a large strategic map, seemingly of the whole continent, the edges whited out. Every road, every town, every piece of important topographical information is there, almost dizzying: Elizabeth can’t be certain how accurate it is, but given these people’s level of technology, it must be fairly good, proportions preserved. Pieces of text next to marked towns, rivers and mountains – not Ancient, but fairly close, a branch from on the same linguistic root. A number of spots have been marked out on the map with three inch tall figurines in the shape of humans in different colors.

Commodore Eshten stands on the left side of the table, hands crossed behind his back and his Dæmon stiff, a military pose; he looks to be deep in thought. Sergeant MacGrimmon and his team are two steps behind them, near the door, quiet and still and deceptively unassuming; but Elizabeth is sure they are watching intently, taking it all in.

“We are here – Ernaus City,” the Chancellor says, for reference, pointing at the sizable dot on the map. It is surrounded by three green tin models of soldiers with rifles.  “We have three companies stationed here at the moment.”

Three soldier figurines – three military companies. How many armed men are that? A hundred, more, in each?

There are more figurines spread around the board. A town in the far south – if this map is to scale, hundreds of miles away. Another in the east, scattered across the landscape. Military camps? Guards of rich towns or estates? Stilling rebellions or faring war, or planning to? She can count at least a dozen such models on the map.

A chill suddenly settles over Elizabeth. This is a war room. This is a regent and her advisers, her military – and now her Tau’ri allies – planning a strike.

The Chancellor gestures at a straight line running from Ernaus City, outward, into the countryside for many miles. “The railway goes many places. This one leads to the processing plants in the north. We have determined that _here_ , in this valley,” she says, tapping her forefinger against the spot, “a train with your people and two of my Ministers was derailed half a rotation ago.”

“Derailed?” Elizabeth asks, and forces herself to remain outwardly calm.

The marines behind her are very tense. Her Dæmon can see it, even though Elizabeth has her backs to them; Simon glances at them one at the time. Lieutenant Kemp grips his P-90 – attached to his vest seemingly casually, safety on – tightly, knuckles white. Sergeant MacGrimmon doesn’t move.

Commodore Eshten, silent until now, says: “Damage was done to the track and the train lost control. Villages reported seeing smoke and fire. It clearly was no natural accident.”

“What about casualties?” Elizabeth asks, and masks her concern behind steel. There is no time to become upset and yielding, and she refuses the imagine possible scenarios with unhappy endings. “Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

Commodore Eshten exchanges a curious look with the Chancellor. It means something, and Elizabeth’s suspicion grows. There is more than has been spoken; a lot more. If she could just pinpoint it …

“Yes,” Ferna says eventually, “they acquired a radio device and contacted us. Your people are alive, according to them.”

 _They could be lying._ Elizabeth doesn’t say it aloud. “What is your plan, Chancellor?” She has a feeling being frank is what is necessary here.

“A company from the Sixth Battalion is converging on what we’ve determined to be their hideout,” Eshten says and indicates another part of the map, a few miles east of the train track. Not far from it, a small village is marked out, surrounded by what could be farmland, fields, sparse forests – the map doesn’t offer much more information. The middle of nowhere. From a strategic standpoint, at first glance, it makes little sense. From the map, the area looks bare and exposed, and yet relatively close to Ernaus City.

“No disrespect, but I came to negotiate, and I am still prepared to do so. We did not come to your world with the intent to use arms.”

“I understand and appreciate your peaceful resolve, but we have already tried that to no success. Minister Dorrell was killed an hour ago. If we do not strike before sundown, one or more of your people will be victim to the rogue militia’s violence,” the Chancellor says.

Elizabeth doesn’t like this at all.

“If I was given more information on this militia,” Elizabeth says carefully, “I could negotiate with them more successfully. My people have no quarrel with yours, and as a neutral party –”

“I cannot allow that. I am sorry, Dr Weir. Our soldiers are moving in as we speak.”

Bloodshed is inevitable, then. Has she come all this way just to see Chancellor Ferna launch – or respond to? – a violent attack, and the outcome will certainly mean injury and death; and Elizabeth’s people are caught in the middle. Once the shooting starts …

“There is another way, Chancellor. We have a ship, the Daedalus, currently en route.”

Commodore Eshten takes a step forward. “A ship?”

“One that flies through space. It can transport any hostages safely away. No violence is required. This can be settled peacefully. If you could delay –”

“Delay?” Chancellor Ferna says sharply. “The order has already been given. If the kidnappers don’t lay down arms and surrender, my forces have orders to contain them by any means necessary.”

Elizabeth’s heart sinks. She shares a desolate thought with her Dæmon: there have been rebellions and civil wars and warring factions on Earth through all of history, and most times it’s ended badly. The fact that they’ve been told so little – who are the kidnappers really? What do they want? Why is Chancellor Ferna so insistent on using violence, not negotiation, even though not even twenty-four hours have passed?

“If my people are caught in the crossfire, what then?”

“Then I am sorry, Dr Weir.”

* * *

Nightfall is three hours away.

They’ve tied their hands again, and Aiden is so sick of this. There should be something they could _do_ , concrete action – he’s prepared to move – Adria is ready to leap up – but the way they gunned down the Minister tells him this is a complicated situation. More than he first understood. These people aren’t afraid to kill – or at least some of them aren’t. Fear can do terrible things. So can desperation.

And this isn’t about money or power, this isn’t two warring states with Aiden’s team caught in the middle. This isn’t humans defending themselves against Wraith. This is the oppressed rising up, and normally Aiden would be all about that, supporting the cause of those who struggle for their lives to reach a semblance of equality. Being caught up like this – he’s scared.

He should’ve emailed his cousin Sheri, answered sooner – before they left for this mission. She’s his only family on Earth that truly matters. What if he doesn’t get to say goodbye?

No one’s said anything since they dragged Minister Dorrell out of the barn. Not even McKay. No complaints. _That_ in itself is a serious sign.

On the far side of the row, Brittany is trembling but not from fear, and her koala Dæmon clings to her side tightly. Nadeau is a ghost of rage, and she exchanges a glance with Aiden, sitting next to her, but can form words. Aiden’s body aches, or maybe it’s his soul; Bergqvist didn’t deserve to die like that. Hobbs is in better shape, physically and mentally, but he didn’t know Bergqvist that well. Came to the City so recently, only a temporary piece of Recon Eight.

(Another broken team.)

Lasat paces in front of the hostages and Aiden could almost call him afraid. Afraid of the upcoming choice, the action. _Then let him be scared,_ Adria thinks harshly: _bastard deserves it after what they did to Sergeant Bergqvist._

* * *

_[See that?]_

Oh yeah. John can see it. Shy has been keeping a close eye on the nearby surroundings. He sees the boy running toward the barn in full haste: if John had to guess, that’s Lasat’s own son, similar features. Younger than twelve, thin cheeks, shoes so thin they barely exist. Only a poor worker’s son caught up in this rebellion.

Before, the boy had been proud to be helping out. Gotten a pat on the back from Lasat for bringing the radio thing. Now, he and his Dæmon rush through the coppice fearfully, down the hill, straight toward the barn. He stumbles, draws himself back up, ignoring the scraped knees that a normal kid would whine about. Determined, the kid keeps running. Slams open the barn doors:

“Pa! Pa!”

On the other side of that hill – less than a klick – there’s a dark mass approaching.

Yes, John can see it. Shy’s eyes are sharp enough to make out the gleam of rifles. The lines are neat. A company of at least a hundred men, trained and armed, and oh, the workers are so fucked. John’s pulse stills: he knows what’s going to happen. Lasat and his followers are going to be gunned down. They’re cornered in this barn, and what’s the odds that thirty men and women, untrained for combat, with hunting rifles and pitchforks, will survive the assault?

 _[Unless],_ Shy suggests;

Unless;

* * *

“Pa! Pa!”

The boy who’d arrived earlier with the radio device rushes into the barn. It’s silent and the men murmur amongst each other tersely. They’ve offered water but no food, and Rodney can _feel_ his blood sugar levels drop. He wants to yell and argue, but his arms and shoulders ache terribly and his bound wrists itch. He glances at John every now and then, the matted blood in his hair, and tries to come up with escape plans. Routes. But with these people, the rifles and pitch forks, their anger toward the injustices done toward them? There’s no way to convince them to let them go. They’ve tried: the workers refused to listen.

John’s head is leaning against the rough wooden wall behind them, eyes closed and breaths slow, and Rodney wonders if he’s fallen asleep. When he carefully reaches out, John’s mind doesn’t feel asleep, though, that sluggish incoherence of dreamless rest – his mind is sharp and unrelenting and highly, highly aware. Communicating with his Dæmon.

“Pa! Soldiers!” The boy is out of breath, and Lasat, the leader of the workers, stands up from where he’s sat on an empty barrel with a solemn expression on his face. It falls away, into fear, startled. Lasat grabs his rifle.

“Where did you see them, and when?”

“Over the hill, just now. I ran as soon as I saw,” the boy says frantically, “perhaps half a mile south as the bird flies. They’re marching this way and I couldn’t count them –”

“But can you guess?”

“I’m not sure, Pa, several dozen.”

John slowly opens his eyes. So, Rodney concludes, John saw that.

“As I said! They’re coming to kill us!” the one named Radel cries, angry and upset. The way he waves his gun around makes Rodney sick, ( _they killed Minister Dorrell with that weapon. one bullet all it took_ ), and they destroyed the radio – but there should be others in the pile where they dumped the Tau’ri gear. If they could get to just one … if Atlantis has been notified; either by the Tholusians or thanks to John’s link to the City – if help is coming … if they could signal **someone** –

“Perhaps you are the spy, Radel, giving away our location,” Lasat growls, putting an arm around his son. “Working against our cause.”

“You dare …?! I’ve lost family to the toxic smoke! A brother in a cave-in! Again, again, again – _tragic accidents_ , they say, _accidents!_ , and do nothing to change it, to give us any safety! It must end!” Radel has several men gathered behind him now, clearly on his side, they’re holding axes and pitchforks and stolen bayonets. Radel is still gripping the gun. “Violence be met with violence. That is what it takes for them to listen – no, not listen. We must take Ernaus, the Governmental Palace. We have allies in the cities. Let’s use them.”

“No,” Lasat says, “we are not ready for such an assault. You know that.”

“Aye!” another man cries. “If we march into the city now, we’d only face swords and shackles.”

“So we run away?” Radel sneers. “Hide? It’s already started.”

John isn’t talking but doing some kind of Silent Military Thing with the marines, communicating something. Rodney’s still working on deciphering it all. He tenses: whatever is coming, it might hurt. Might hurt a lot. Lieutenant Brittany nods at John, this minute motion, and he sees Ronon’s Dæmon dig her claws into the dirt and Kanaan braces.

Are they going to fight their way out? Oh, god. They can’t do that. Can they? Could they? Those are a lot of workers and they’re angry and armed –

“Soldiers are coming,” Lasat says. “We must leave.”

“Yes, we must leave this place,” Radel says. “Go quickly to the city, while the soldiers are occupied! It’s a perfect diversion. I know the forest roads and old paths – we’ll reach the city much more quickly than they could respond.”

The faces of the other workers in the barn are ashen and voices debating mutedly, frantically: a tide, rising and falling, constantly and never at rest. Their fear of the incoming soldiers is so palatable Rodney shivers. So this is how it ends? They’ll get trapped in a crossfire? _And not even a Nobel nomination yet._

“Quickly, before the soldiers arrive. Follow me!” Radel shouts. “Gather your arms.”

Several men do so. A shout rises in the barn, an agreement: _yea! yea!,_ and Rodney’s sick to the stomach. He can’t see either option ending well.

“So you abandon us now,” Lasat says. “I’m disappointed, Radel. I am not a fool who will run into the arms of death. Clearly you are. We make our stand here, without risking any others.”

“I know of places we can seek cover and make plans to attack Ernaus,” Radel says. He waves another man forward, someone loyal to him, and gestures for him to grab the nearest Tau’ri. Lieutenant Brittany (face angry and quiet) is wrenched to her feet forcibly, and she nearly struggles free. “We’ll take the hostages with us.”

“Get the fuck off her!” LC Nadeau shouts and kicks the man’s ankle, making him stumble, and Ronon nearly springs up, his Dæmon’s jaws open – but John doesn’t give them a signal to attack and fight their way free.

One of Lasat’s guys steps in, separating Radel’s man from the Lieutenant. Brittany, bristling but still silent, kneels next to Nadeau and Hobbs, refusing to be moved.

“If you want to live, you release us and let us help you,” John says suddenly. “Listen. _You know_ you can’t fight off a battalion of trained soldiers on your own.”

Lasat frowns. “You are saying you will help us?”

“Oppression sucks, and I’m still disagreeing with how you did all this, but we can hold off the soldiers long enough for you and your merry gang to escape. They’re here to stop you guys and free the hostages, so you free the hostages. We walk out of here and distract the soldiers, and you guys can run off or whatever. We work together and survive, or you get killed. Your choice.”

“Not the strongest argument,” Rodney whispers.

“You got a better idea?” John hisses back. “I’m the one with a bleeding head.”

“Yeah, and a concussion and who knows what’s done to your already lacking sense of self-preservation.”

“Thanks.”

“Sir,” Ford says in a low voice, “I kind of agree with McKay.”

“We just need to hold off the soldiers long enough to get out of here. They’re here to get us out, anyway. We don’t have to fight.”

“I agree with John,” Teyla says.

“Ronon?”

The Satedan squares his shoulders. He’s mostly sat silent, glaring at the workers – Lasat in particular – and Rodney is pretty sure that, if given the opportunity, Ronon will leap up and strangle the guy. “I’m ready to fight.”

Of course he is.

Rodney holds his breath: Lasat paces for several long heartbeats. And then a change comes over his face. He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder and says:

“Too much violence has been dealt. We will let you go, if you keep to your side of the bargain.” He looks at the boy. The kid looks like he’s scared but doing his best to hide it. “You know the way to the tunnels? You remember?”

A small nod. “Yes, Pa.”

“All of you! We’ll find cover in the old mine shafts and regroup there, while the offworlders buy us time to escape.”

“Running away is a coward’s way,” someone protests.

“I say we fight them!” another cries out. “That’s what we set out to do.”

“Has not enough blood been spilled?” somebody else counters.

“There’s no time to argue about this! We’ve already wasted it!” Lasat shouts. He reaches into his belt and pulls out a knife. Rodney flinches back when the man approaches John and kneels, and for a horrible horrible horrible second he noiselessly imagines a pool of blood –

But Lasat grabs hold of John’s arm and cuts through the bonds around his wrist. Frayed rope falls away, revealing chafed skin, and Lasat hands John the knife.

“Free your people.”

John says nothing, stiffly turning around to free Rodney and then Ford, handing the Lieutenant the weapon so he can cut the others’ bonds. He stands slowly, body aching from having been sitting still for so long. Rodney has to support himself against the wall to follow suit, and he gladly accepts John’s offered hand even if John, with that head injury, probably shouldn’t be moving around. God, he hurts all-over. And it’s not over yet.

He really wants to be back in his lab. Or his bed. With a big sandwich, no wakeup alarms, no deadlines. No guns.

“Where’s our gear?” John asks, all business. How can he be so calm? Rodney’s struggling with the instinct to run or maybe take a swing at Lasat – the guy, directly or indirectly, derailed the train, killed that marine, got John hurt. He deserves a fist to the face. But Rodney forces himself to be still. They’ve just gotten free: pissing these people off shouldn’t be second on the list.

“There.” Lasat points to a corner of the barn. Piled not-so-neatly, far too carelessly for Rodney’s comfort (what if something accidentally goes off?): their vests, weapons, the backpack John managed to grab before _they_ got grabbed. Some things were left behind on the train, including Rodney’s – probably broken – computer.

Radel and his men have taken some of it, distributed it among themselves, and there’s a brief squabble as the workers try to keep the stolen P-90s to themselves. Ronon easily disarms two of them, taking back his particle magnum and one semiautomatic, which he hands to Brittany-

Teyla and Ronon free the marines, and they quickly go through the pile. Rodney slips his TAC vest on, and doesn’t feel particularly safer. Familiar clicks of semiautomatics being checked and ammo clips inserted;

Meanwhile, the workers are preparing, and separating into two groups: one with Lasat and one with Radel. The two are arguing in strained voices, and Lasat has a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy is scared. Who wouldn’t be?

“Here,” quietly, and Rodney startles when John gently presses a 9mil in his hand. He shivers. He really doesn’t want to fight their way out of this. It can only end badly. “You okay?” John’s gaze fixes on him.

“Not really, but there’s no time to freak out, is there,” Rodney says. “You?”

“Same.”

Oh, that’s comforting. The dried blood on John’s face and neck paints a stark picture. This mission is going to fuel Rodney’s nightmares for months – if they get out alive, that is. His pessimism has reached new levels of All Time Low.

Now free from the cuffs, LC Nadeau offers Lieutenant Brittany a helping hand, and Corporal Hobbs pats Ronon on the back after being helped to his feet. The marines are stoic, and the angry tear tracks on Brittany’s face have dried. They murmur a few quiet words between themselves, comfort or assurances, and Rodney gulps and glances at the covered-up body of the late Sergeant. That could too easily have been John, or Teyla, or –

 _Okay, positive thinking, positive thinking, positive thinking_ , Mer demands; they’ll get back home alive (alive) alive, back to the lab, back to safety, and all this will be a bad memory, a report that once written Rodney can begin the process of forgetting;

* * *

Lieutenant Brittany is so tired, so angry, so upset, so _drained_ she’s having difficulty differentiating between the emotions and physical sensations threatening to overwhelm her. The only reason she’s upright is the determination to Go Back Home, supported by her Dæmon. Their Bond holds her up on a string:

Bergqvist’s death is an open scar, and this mess – being held hostage for whatever reason, she can’t bring herself to care even though she might have. If her team was alive. If not for. Then, she’d sympathize, even freely offer help to these people to rise up against their oppressors.

“Hey,” Nadeau says, lays a hand on her arm. Brittany can see the same shadows her bruised face.

Their captors’ abrupt turnaround is too late. Now what? Apparently, there are Tholusian soldiers on their way with the intent to fight the workers, free the hostages – or they’ll simply be caught in the middle. It’s too late. Her team is splintered, Bergqvist is dead. Suddenly. There’s no time to mourn. Brittany doesn’t want to fight anybody – not any Tholusian soldiers, anyway.

No amount of revenge can bring Bergqvist back to life. That shit might work for SG-1 or, hell, who knows, even Recon One – alien devices at hand, Ascension – but her team? one of the many Redshirts?

His corpse won’t reanimate. She’ll never speak with him again.

“I know,” Brittany says, softly, looking at Nadeau. The LC’s covered in cuts and bruises from the crash, though not as bad as Emmagan or Colonel Sheppard.

“This is fucked up,” Hobbs whispers after being helped up by Dex. The Satedan pats their backs with his good arm, the one not recently dislocated (Nadeau fixed it without the guy complaining at all, the ex-Runner used to pain), silently checking up on them. He does that on joint missions. When things go to hell. He’s one of them. All the City marines have quickly grown fond of the big guy. He’s a good fighter, a solid presence who easily slid into place, and it’s almost like he’s always been part of the Atlantis package. Brittany nods in reply to Dex’ wordless look, and the Satedan returns his focus on his own team.

The rebel leaders are working up a new spat, whether to fight or flee, and Colonel Sheppard steps between them.

“That’s enough! Time to go,” he says. “Soldier’s are going to be here any minute. Here’s what’s going to happen. My people are no longer hostages. We need to signal that to the soldiers, so they don’t shoot us, and you can get away from here. No one has to get hurt.” The Colonel looks at Lasat, expression hard to read. “I don’t know a lot about your planet and culture, but if you go the city armed and intent to attack, you’ll all be killed.”

Lasat sighs heavily. “It was not my intent it would end like this.”

“Well, it does. It did.”

“Yes, yes,” says Dr McKay quickly, cutting in, “a white flag. Do you have white flags? Do white flags work on this planet? Crap, why didn’t I ask before?”

“Let’s go,” Colonel Sheppard says. “Ford?”

“Yeah, we’re go.”

Lasat nods. “Come!” he says to his people. “We go north.”

“The hostages will betray us,” someone argues.

“You can all run and hide for all I care,” Sheppard says frankly, the edge of his tone hard, and Brittany exhales slowly. The Old Man hasn’t forgotten about Bergqvist, disregarded it;

The shot is abrupt but not unseen. While they’d been arguing, Brittany and her team silently watched, gotten ready to fight, if that ends up being the final order. And from the corner of their eye, Brittany’s Dæmon sees movement. Lasat’s back is turned to Radel, and the weasel of a man has a desperate cold grip of the rifle, and he aims at Lasat and pulls the trigger.

Lasat looks surprised and betrayed. He sways for a second, his grimy shirt quickly growing red.

“Pa!”

The man raises his gaze dimly to look at Radel, who is backed up by over a dozen followers.

“Fool. Traitor. Won’t work,” Lasat murmurs, and then falls over and doesn’t move. The boy starts crying, trying to hide it all the same, sobs breaking in his throat.

“Papa!”

Shit, this just got more complicated.

“Ford, medkit!”

Brittany can see the point of entry, and the bullet pierced a lung and possibly shattered his spine. At once, Brittany takes up point, and she and her team, Emmagan and Dex form a circle. Most workers step back. Some shout and cry in shock, dismay – Lasat’s followers. Others raise their arms, but hesitate, as if unsure if they could take on the Tau’ri who have now armed themselves. Brittany’s heart pounds loudly in her ribcage. If they die today, at least Bergqvist won’t be alone.

“If you want to live, come with me,” Radel proclaims. “The hostages are to be taken with us for bargaining –”

“One step closer,” says Colonel Sheppard, clicking the safety off. “ **I dare** **you**.”

Radel hesitates.

“Go. Run away. Fight the soldiers. I don’t care. But if you come one step closer to my people, none of yours will get another chance.”

Brittany doesn’t disbelieve that, and she hates fighting other humans – different from Wraith – but if the order is given – if it’s given – she glances down, a brief moment, at Bergqvist’s cold face. Next to her, she hears the charge-up of Dex’ gun.

The air is too thick to breathe.

Finally, Radel backs a step and then a second, not taking his eyes off the Tau’ri, and he calls: “Let us leave.” His followers make their way out the barn door, most of them backing, truly scared and out of their depth. Some turn on their heel and run.

Ford has got Lasat turned on his side, and the man is choking on his own blood.

“His lung, sir,” Ford says. “It’s filling with blood, and I don’t have what I need, or the skill, to fix this. We need real medics.” The tone is familiar, though not too heavy with pity;

(if not for this man, none of this would’ve happened; the train, the bomb, Bergqvist. it wouldn’t have)

The boy has dropped down next to his dad and weakly shakes his shoulder. “No, Pa. Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

“Shh,” Lasat whispers hoarsely. Coughs. “Be brave now, son. Be …” His eyes flicker.

“What do we do?” Dr McKay hisses through gritted teeth. Brittany has to admit she is amazed the doc is as calm as he is. Rumor has it he’s not this tough. Well, rumor has a _lot_ of things which she can’t trust to be true.

Colonel Sheppard throws a hopeless gesture at the broken radio, and Dr McKay shakes his head before the question has even been spoken. “Forget it. If I had half an hour and the right tools, maybe – now, not a chance.”

“Then we’ve got to go out there and face the soldiers, explain that’s happening,” Colonel Sheppard says.

“And if they have orders to fire on sight?” Emmagan says.

Colonel Sheppard pinches his nose. He’s grimly pale in the dim light. “Got to take that chance, I guess.” He unclasps the P-90 from his vest, preparing to face the unknown. “I’ll go.”

“No, no, no,” Dr McKay starts, waving his hands and getting in the Colonel’s face like a human wall. Stopping him. “Do I need to list all the reasons that’s a Bad Idea?”

“Sir,” Ford says; his hands are red with blood and the cloth he’s pressed to the exit wound is already drenched through, and he can’t keep the pressure there forever. “This guy needs surgery, or he’ll die.”

The boy wails, cheeks tear-stained.

Some of the workers – Lasat’s followers – have remained behind, and one of them steps forward, tall and dark woman. “He is one of ours. We will look after him.”

“You’ll let us go?” Colonel Sheppard says, suspicious.

“We have nothing to gain from your keeping,” says the woman. “There is a secret passage, a tunnel. You are few enough to escape that way quickly, and there is room enough for you to be able to carry your dead fellow between you.”

“Era!” one of the workers mutters. “The only advantage we have –”

“Then you have ignored everything Lasat has done and said. He let them go. We let them go,” the woman, Era, says. “Please, let us keep the medicines, that is all I ask. We will negotiate, if we can, but you are free to go.”

Colonel Sheppard nods sharply. They’re out of time. “Done. Ford.”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Ford says, and the man who had protested Era sighs but kneels to take over, shifting hands to hold pressure over Lasat’s wound according to Ford’s instructions. The man is unconscious by now. The medpack is left open next to him, and another guy starts rifling through it for bandages.

“The tunnel?”

“There, under there, there is a hatch. That is how we have gone to and from here for secret meetings,” Era says and points to a pile of hay stacked up against a wooden pillar, next to an overturned old cart. Together they quickly clear it and there it is: a wooden hatch, a square of five by five feet, lifted by a heavy iron ring. Brittany flicks on the flashlight of her P-90. There’s a rough wooden ladder leading down, at a slight slope, to what might have been a store or cellar.

“There is only one direction,” Era says. “Follow it. It goes many hundred paces, before it slopes upward again. It emerges in a forest glade to the southeast.”

Colonel Sheppard orders the marines to go first; Hobbs and Nadeau lift the makeshift gurney with Bergqvist’s covered body, and Brittany takes point, reluctantly. She’s halfway down, shining the flashlight, and gives the all-clear: the walls are made of steady dirt, sometimes supported by wooden planks, and the earth has been made hard by the trampling of many feet.

“Go,” Colonel Sheppard says.

And then there is the noise of explosions, far too close: warning shots in the air above and around the barn. They last for ten, fifteen seconds, steady bursts, and they crouch or throw themselves of the ground.

Then a proud voice on the outside commands:

“Show yourselves, rebels! I am Chief General Jahat who gives these orders.  
You are surrounded by the Sixth Company! The Chancellor demands your surrender.  
Exit your hiding place unarmed and in single file, and you will be spared!”

“Oh, crap,” Dr McKay whispers;

* * *

Several thoughts cross John’s mind at once.

First, as Rodney aptly put it: _oh, crap._ They’re surrounded by dozens of soldiers, and the workers are too few and untrained and too badly armed to put up a fight. They’ll be cannon fodder. The soldiers are armored similarly to the guards they saw earlier – shining metals, tough leathers, polished helmets – and bearing swords, shields, spears, and rifles like the one Radel had used.

Shy saw them coming. Steadily. But they could do nothing but watch as they converged on the glade, the seemingly abandoned farm. They knew exactly where to strike.

From the ordered lines of the company steps a man, who proclaims in a loud voice, using a metal funnel to amplify it: “Show yourselves, rebels! I am Chief General Jahat who gives these orders. You are surrounded by the Sixth Company! The Chancellor demands your surrender. Exit your hiding place unarmed and in single file, and you will be spared!”

Second: _Jahat_. The name rings a bell, distant, but quickly coming to light. Chancellor Ferna talked about Chief General Jahat, leader of the Tholusian armies; an important man, and then this is Big Stuff indeed that they’ve sent their Chief General to deal with the workers – rebels?. Would the U.S. ever send out their SecNav or General of the Air Force to negotiate with terrorists in person, or lead a strike force? Doubtful.

The Chancellor had offered to arrange a meeting between John and the Chief General once Jahat ‘returned from overseas’, but no more details had been given, and Commodore Eshten had been there at the Palace to answer any questions in Jahat’s stead. So John had assumed that the Chief General was out of reach for days or weeks.

Not overseas, then. Hidden. Secret ops? Were they already expecting something like this, a rebellion, and Jahat had men ready for combat to quench it before it began? And the Tau’ri had been something unexpected thrown into the mix –

(what does that mean?)                    (or is it coincidence, unlucky chance, all of it?)         (what the hell does it even matter at this point?)

“Go, go!” he orders, and Lieutenant Brittany picks up the pace; Lance Corporal Nadeau and Corporal Hobbs lower Bergqvist as fast as they can, and then Rodney and his Dæmon scramble after them.

Ford remains as long as he can; his hands are red with blood and there’s a splatter on his face as well, and only moves once Teyla and Ronon are through the hatch. Before he joins them, John looks at Era, this woman and her unexpected kindness. But, no, _kindness_ is the wrong word. She was in on all this, after all; helped place the bomb and derail the train, causing Bergqvist’s death; she was there as they murdered the guards aboard the train and shot Minister Dorrell; she didn’t step in until their leader Lasat was injured.

“You should run, too,” he says, instead of _thanks for letting us go_. “

She simply shakes her head. “This is not over.”

The hatch closes above him, and the only light John sees is the flicker of white flashlights ahead: the marines, moving. Lieutenant Brittany is already fifty of sixty feet ahead, leading them onward in tense silence – even Rodney isn’t babbling in fear, only breathing too quickly, too loudly.

John climbs down the ladder, and briefly closes his eyes. Searches.

Shy sits atop of the roof of the barn, for a second, crouching, wings folded tightly; the soldiers are closing in, and another round of warning shots are fired. Once they fade away, the Raven unfurls their wings and leap away, appearing to the Tholusians as nothing but a wild bird scared off by the broken, thundering noise of gunfire.

 _“This is your second and last warning,”_ Chief General Jahat shouts.

It’s difficult, navigating by feel – by this thread of their Bond – without map or clear direction. Being underground is disorientating. Era said the tunnel led southeast, but John doesn’t know the Tholusian sky yet, and Shy flitters this way and that, seeking closure. They’ll try to meet at the same place.

Ahead, Rodney stumbles, Meredith nearly tangled up at his feet. Ronon catches his arm and they keep going, keep going. Meredith breaks into a run to keep up with the quickening pace.

None of them says anything. Seconds turn to minutes. John estimates, by the strides, they’ve come nearly half a mile now, and the air is thick and hard to breathe though not dangerously so, and adrenaline has kicked in a second time;

Faintly, distantly, there’s the noise of rifles firing, dulled by earth and distance, and scattered voices. The Raven can hear it much more clearly, and they turn in a circle to catch a glimpse of steel below the hill, a mile or so off, surrounding the farmstead. The soldiers must have entered the barn and the workers are putting up one hell of a fight.

The light ahead turns a corner.

“Left turn!” Lieutenant Brittany says over her shoulder.

“I hate this,” Rodney whispers.

“Shut up and _move_ ,” Ronon grunts.

There’s a slight bend in the tunnel, next, this way and that, winding like a snake. The escape route is well-used and in places widens by one or two feet, and the marines group together there, move faster.

Eleven or twelve minutes into the sprint, Lieutenant Brittany stops and her light ascends to reveal a ladder secured to the wall, which comes to an abrupt end after a final right-hand bend. At the top, ten or so feet up, there is a hatch, wooden and partially broken.

“Daylight!”

“Go, go, go.”

Before he turns that final bend, John hears something coming up behind – several hundred feet away, and it takes a second, straining his ears, to comprehend.

Then.

“Shit. They’re in the tunnel! Go, go, go!”

Minutes behind, but that doesn’t matter much: the tunnel only leads one way, and if it’s workers or soldiers – well, John doesn’t want to wait to find out.

Getting the gurney with the dead Sergeant up is trickier than getting him down, and they struggle for three painful minutes (Rodney counts the seconds stressedly, vivdly wanting to pace but there’s not enough space to do so). Finally, one by one, they emerge;

The forest glade is peaceful, and there is no sign of struggle or habitation, except the grass around the hatch has been flattened and in many places there’s dirt or mud instead. The hatch was partially covered by loose brushes and twigs, a vain attempt to hide it, and the path out is uncertain. The sun is lower in the sky, now, and there’s a slight cool breeze.

They shut the hatch, cover it again quickly.

“What now?” Ford asks. “And the tunnel?”

“Someone’s coming after us,” John says. “I don’t plan on sticking on around to find out who. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Rodney despairs even as he’s forcibly tugged along by Ford and Ronon, and they run as quickly as they can with the gurney. The forest floor is unsteady and mossy, and there are stones and roots to watch out for.

But, quickly, the forest ends; the skyline clear, and they are met by a vast expanse of fields of wheat and corn-like grain and other foodstuffs growing. Houses are spotted here and there, at a distance, and John tries to place them on his mind’s (very very vague) Tholusian map. They halt for a moment.

Their best bet is heading for the city, Ernaus, where the Gate is. Problem is, he can’t see any sign of any city, and the Raven, above, still hasn’t reached their location; turned around at some point, slightly lost.

The thought strikes Rodney, who’s now picked up Mer to cradle her to his chest. “Hey, where’s…?”

“On their way,” John says. “Any ideas?”

“We could try to make it to one of the farms,” Teyla suggests. “They may offer aid or shelter.”

“Or we bring soldiers on them,” Ronon says, “and we all get killed.”

John grimaces, hiding a wince. “We got to have a talk about optimism, Chewie. Right. Lieutenant Brittany, what’s your vote?”

“We need to get our bearings,” she says carefully. “Maybe some of the locals could help us on the right track for the Stargate.”

Yeah. If they must interact with the locals … Yeah. _If we don’t scare them off,_ John privately thinks. They must look a terrifying, ragged bunch: dirty, some more or less covered in blood, injuries of various degrees, a dead body.

“Ronon, you’re good at covering up tracks. Take Hobbs and take up the rear. Teyla, which one of those farms d’you reckon is closest?”

She shades her eyes against the falling sun with a hand. The sky is slowly turning orange and pink, and there’s a hint of an alien moon crescent far, far above. She surveys for a moment, then points across the fields. “There.” A few houses huddled together, and smoke is rising from the chimneys; someone’s home. “One and a half miles, perhaps, if we cut through the fields in a straight line.”

John nods. “Then let’s go that way.” And hope for the best. Hopefully, the farmer, or whoever else living there, won’t be pissed off or so shockedly frightened at the sight of the Tau’ri that they call more soldiers on them.

* * *

A farmer’s life a fairly straightforward one: he tends his lands, his beasts, his grains, his household, and tries his best to keep them all fed and warm through the winters. He goes to the markets in the nearest city at the peak of each season, when he has a surplus to spare for a bit of coin, and the chance to trade for other items he cannot get from his neighbors or make himself.

The old man is bent over the fire, stoking it, and the family – his wife, children, and two extra hands he hired last season – is gathering around the table for a common evening meal.

There’s a knock on the door.

_Tap-tap-tap._

The farmer frowns. He expects no neighbor at this hour, and the nearest one lives quite a trek away; going by mount would be fastest, but he can hear no indication of hooves outside. The knock comes again, this time more forceful. _Tap-tap-tap._ The family hushes, surprised.

The farmer glances out the window through the thick, hand-woven curtains, but it is growing dark and he can see two vague shapes on the doorstep. Their gear and garb is strange. They must have come from far away – wayfarers unlike any he has met before. But he cannot be a bad host. He must greet them.

He opens the door, hesitating, and is come face to face with the strangest people he has ever seen. He is only a simple Tholusian farmer who has never traveled beyond the borders of the village and, at most, to the markets in Ernaus. Some stories he’s heard, of course, of Lands Far Away and Worlds in the Sky, but the Portal is only accessible to the people of the city, to the Chancellor and her like. If the stories are at all true.

“Uh, hi,” says the man (the farmer assumes), who is clad in grey and black. Heavy boots (wealthy?), clothes oddly reminiscent of a uniform (warrior? but where then is his sword and armor?), and there are strange shadows on his forehead, difficult to make out in the setting sun. The farmer raises his lantern and sees, to his amazement, that the shadows are made of dried blood and bruises.

The woman is in little better shape. Weary and wary. “Greetings. I am Teyla Emmagan, and this is John Sheppard. We come from a place far away and are in need of aid – refuge, if you may offer it, good man, or at least directions to the capital city. We mean no harm to you or your family.”

“You … come from over the seas, then?” the farmer asks, suspicious. Their Animae are very strange – the woman’s at least, which he can discern, a large feline, Shape unfamiliar. The man’s is out of sight.

“Something like that,” says the man, John Sheppard – a sheep-herder? – he does not look like a farmer of any kind.

“These are strange days,” the farmer mutters to himself, before raising his voice. “Well met. I am Greten and this is my house. I have never met such strangers before. Are you travelling all that long way alone?”

“Not quite,” John Sheppard says. “There’s seven,” (the man halts suddenly, blinks, and there’s a hint of grief, anger), “… six others. We don’t need anything but someplace to lay up for the night, and directions to the city.”

“By your leave, good sir,” Teyla Emmagan adds. She sounds older than she looks, fair and gentle and kind, and the farmer feels suddenly quite small and insignificant, as if he has just met a queen from the old stories. Here! at his old homestead!

Oh, but so many? A lot of mouths to feed!

“Oh,” Greten says faintly. “I … I cannot feed you all, though you could have shelter for the night if … if it is truly pressing. But you appear injured. There is a healer in the village.”

“No need,” says John Sheppard. “We have, uh, our own.”

“Please wait here,” Greten says, slowly, wringing his hands. “For a moment. I must speak with my wife.”

“Sure, no problem.”

He leaves the door slightly ajar, hurrying to his wife.

* * *

“Sure this is a good idea?” John murmurs as the farmer, Greten, backs away and there is noise from inside the house: confused questions, the clutter of cutlery, something like a dog barking, shuffling feet, children playing.

“It is too late to change our minds,” Teyla says. “He seems genuinely goodhearted.”

John hopes this won’t come back to kick their asses some way. Either his people, or this farmer and his family. He bites the inside of his cheek to stifle the thought, and briefly, through their Bond, lets Rodney know that things are going okay. So far.

The Raven had reached the farm first, peered in through a window. There’s a family here, children, and John doesn’t want to put them in danger. But they need someplace to rest – it’s getting dark and they have no supplies beyond the barest minimum, and they can’t make it to the Gate tonight.

Soon, the farmer is back. The opens the door a little wider. “Where are your other folk?” he asks.

“They are waiting by the fence,” Teyla says, gesturing toward the wooden gate – meagre protection.

“You are obviously weary and been through some ordeal, though I cannot guess what,” Greten says, his Dæmon’s gaze flitting between the strangers nervously. “You bear some kind of weapons. I ask you leave these at the door.”

“Sorry,” John says, “it’s kind to let us in, but we … don’t exactly feel safe without these.”

“With your permission, we will set up camp on your land,” Teyla says, “either in the glade behind your house or in the yard.”

“You must have a roof over your heads, at least!” Greten exclaims. “I will not have it be known that Greten Garrensson is a bad host. I have a barn. There are tame animals there, if you can bear their smell and noise, but it will be dry and warm. I will see about food.”

“Thank you. You are very kind,” Teyla says.

The farmer takes his lantern and asks them to follow him. A thin rain has started falling, and the stone steps to the house’s door are matted. He leads them across the yard, to a barn angled south-north, and John gestures for the marines to approach.

As the two teams enter the lanternlight, Greten the farmer gasps. He looks at Ford’s bloodied hands and the covered gurney, probably guessing the horrible truth of what’s beneath the gaudy fabric.

“Sorry, we’re not exactly … in our finest,” John says awkwardly.

“I … see,” Greten says. “You wear uniforms.” It isn’t a question.

“Yeah. We’re not from overseas,” John says. “We’re kind of further away from that.”

“You came from the Portal!” Greten exclaims. “Oh. I thought it was just a story. Oh! I always wondered if it was true and there were other worlds out there, like ours! Or very different,” he adds. “Well. Well.” Then he shakes his head, as if discarding a thought. “Here.”

He opens the barn door. The animals inside remind John of cows and sheep and pigs, though the sizes and colorings differ from what he’s familiar with. They are all kept in different sections of the barn, some sleeping, some munching on hay. One of the kind-of-cows lifts its head as they enter, makes a soft inquiring noise, then calmly goes back to eating, undisturbed. Greten hangs the lantern on a peg near the door and shows them inside. Most of the floor is dirt, or stone, covered in hay.

“It is not much,” Greten says, “but at least it does not rain in here. I cannot offer much in way of food –” Rodney perks up a bit at the mention of food, and John nudges him with an elbow – “except water and bread. I will return.” With that the leaves the barn.

They set Bergqvist down in a corner, before arranging each other in a circle. John sits down heavily. Ronon places himself near the door, not fully closed, and peers out into the darkness with sharp eyes; his gun rests across his knees, ready to be drawn at any moment.

“The medpack,” Ford says suddenly. “Shit. We don’t have nothing.”

“Yeah, well. Nothing can be done about that now,” John says. “What _do_ we have?”

“I’ve got a couple of powerbars in my vest,” LC Nadeau says.

“Really? Give them here,” Rodney says, without ado or embarrassment. “I am hypoglycemic and if my blood sugar drops –”

“One thing at the time, McKay,” John cuts in tiredly. He’s hungry himself, and his head hurts and his body aches, and his heart aches too. He wonders what happened to Era and the other workers. If Lasat is alive, and the boy. And he wonders, for a moment, where Radel and the others went; if they managed to escape and are now planning on rioting in the streets or attacking the government as best they can, or if the soldiers caught up with them.

“I’m hungry! We haven’t eaten for hours and hours!”

“It’s okay, sir, he can have it,” the Lance Corporal says though she visibly doesn’t agree with her own words. Resigned.

John digs through his own pack. It too had been looted, but not completely; he finds a spare ammo pack, an emergency epi-pen, the 9mil he’d stowed in there, and a partially crushed powerbar. He throws the latter at Rodney, who catches it clumsily. “No need, LC.”

The barn door creaks and whines as it’s opened; farmer Greten is back, holding a basket and another lantern, which he places on the ground in their circle.

“Here,” Greten says, “some bread and dried fruits from the stores. There is fresh water – the well is in the yard, as you saw, and here is a bucket you may use to draw more. I am sorry, but there is nothing to go with the bread.”

“We thank you. You are most kind and generous,” Teyla says.

“I admit I have many questions, and would be comforted if you could answer them. Where are you from? How far have you traveled?” Greten pauses. “How did you get injured … what happened to your comrade?”

John clears his throat, glaring at Rodney for a second to just stay silent and let him and Teyla handle this. “We’re from a planet called Terra, which is very, very far away. And we were … there was an accident at the railway. That’s why we’re heading toward Ernaus. We’ve got to tell people there that we’re okay and alive, and then return home through the Stargate, uh, Portal.”

“I understand,” Greten says, though he doesn’t leave at once. “I am sorry for the loss of your friend. If you stay here tonight, I will direct you to the city in the morning. It is not far, and there is a road for most of the way.”

Again, Teyla says: “Thank you.”

Finally the farmer leaves. Rodney and Ronon are already eating quite happily, and Ford washes his hands with some of the water the best he can. Nadeau tries of the dried fruits, deciding it’s somewhat like apple. John doesn’t touch the food; he doesn’t trust his stomach right now. Instead he talks quietly with Teyla and they, with the marines, decide a schedule for watches; Ronon and John will start, with Ford and Brittany taking the next. Hobbs lays back to sleep. Brittany doesn’t eat, but crawls up on her side, so that her face is partially looking at Bergqvist.

John holds back a heavy sigh and closes his eyes for a second. Then he rises and walks over to sit next to Ronon.

The skies are clear and quiet. Stars visible, one by one by one, and a foreign moon distantly; it’s beautiful.

The Raven, above, watches the sun set. There is no sign of any soldiers or anyone else approaching the farmstead. They’d covered their tracks the best they could – not easy, but easier with Ronon’s expertise.

Ronon doesn’t say anything, only inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement.

They wait.

* * *

It’s a small jump, one star to the other within the same galaxy: it takes only some three hours to get there. Three hours is enough to get several subspace messages from Weir, updates relayed by the Chancellor of the planet in question. Some intel.

Weir hopes they can deescalate the situation. If not, the orders are clear: beam their people up into safety. Thanks to the subcutaneous transmitters, isolating the signals shouldn’t be difficult. He has a security team on stand-by and pilots ready to leap into their F-302s. Hopefully it won’t come to that.

Caldwell stays on the Bridge the whole time, watching the vortex. Oh, he knows the blue swirl is some kind of illusion, caused by how their hyperspace drive works. The feeling is eerily like falling into a deep well. He’s never truly gotten used to it; this is a thing the human mind was never meant to perceive.

“Sir, we’re coming up on the coordinates,” Meyers, his navigator, announces. “Dropping out of hyper in three…two…one.”

The vortex disappears; the stars, crystalline, and the planet taking shape from a vague nothingness to a sphere of green, blue, yellow. Not unlike Earth: vast stretches of land as well as ocean, and the white cloud cover is beautifully uneven. Caldwell stands up, giving orders before the planet has entirely settled in the viewscreen.

“Scan for their transmitters, and open a channel.”

“Yes, sir. Channel open.”

“Colonel Sheppard, do you read? This is the Daedalus. Colonel Sheppard, respond.”

No answer.

“Signal’s clear on our end, sir,” Lieutenant Stuart, his comms officer, says, “but they could be out of range or their equipment malfunctioning.”

“Are they on this side of the planet?”

They’ve dropped out on the daylight side, the sun behind them. There’s a large continent below, with dips of valleys and rising mountains; not unlike Earth, and beyond that ocean there’s a glimpse of a second continent, shrouded in darkness.

“No, sir. We’re homing in on their transmitters – we have their coordinates,” Major Marks says. “Other side of the planet.”

Caldwell tries again. “Colonel Sheppard, please respond. This is the Daedalus. Are you in need of assistance?”

No response.

“All right. Lock onto the transmitters and beam them up. Defense teams, stand by.”


End file.
